


The Devil in the Details

by Shotgun_in_the_Impala



Series: Unchronicled: The Lost Gospel of Layla Parker [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Don't Judge Me, Drug Use, Drugs, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Gritty, Humor, I Don't Even Know, I have no control over these characters anymore, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm just along for the ride, Lots of other stuff that I can't tag without spoiling the story, Minor Canonical Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Mistaken Identity, Mystery, Not Beta Read, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot, Probably Eventual Everything, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Realism, Season/Series 03, Vampires, Violence, WTF, glacially slow everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-02 13:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 71,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5249210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_in_the_Impala/pseuds/Shotgun_in_the_Impala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Layla Parker.  At least, that’s the name she gives to anyone she plans on knowing for more than a few days.  She came to town expecting a routine vampire hunt but it quickly becomes apparent that nothing about this job is going to be routine.   The Winchesters don’t know Layla or that she’s a hunter when they arrive to work the same case.  An intense case fic with a whodunit, a comedy of errors, lots of fights and probably eventual romance.   This is only the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. -Meeting the Locals - We All Make Mistakes - A Startling Revelation - Oh, the Tangled Webs-

**Author's Note:**

> Set in season 3, after episode 10. Most of you probably don’t need reminders but for those who do: Dean’s contract is running out. Bela has stolen the Colt and Ruby still has the knife.

  
 

_‘Animal attacks.’_ That’s what had brought Layla Parker to this dried up and dying town in the desolate cornfield wastelands of central Ohio. _Fucking ‘animal attacks.’ As if._ The willful ignorance of mankind never ceased to amaze her. Layla might even wonder at the ineptitude of local law enforcement if she hadn’t had so many run-ins with them over the last few years in her chosen profession - although ‘chosen’ may not be the right word for the series of events that brought her here, that made her decide to hunt.

  
             And what since then? Fifty? Maybe a hundred small towns like this and nearly as many bungling officials, refusing to see what the evidence really told them. With few exceptions, it always seemed to end with one of two conclusions. Option 1: the aforementioned official targeted Layla, the one tackling the actual problem because he or she refused to see the real monster; or Option 2: said officer became a very sudden and adamant believer in things that go bump in the night when claws or teeth or knives wielded by black eyes made believing an inevitability. Unfortunately, these revelations usually came far too late in the person’s much abbreviated lifespan to be of any real use, especially to Layla, the hunter now standing over a deceased peace officer whose friends would be asking awkward questions very soon. Option 2 failed. Review Option 1.

  
             Layla’s mind drifted wearily in the droning buzz of the tires on asphalt. She long ago gave up fighting with the radio dial for anything decent to listen to so settled for turning it down to a low background hum. At this time of night the road was deserted and she flexed her fingers on the steering wheel, working out the tension born from hours of driving. She rolled her neck and repositioned her shoulders against the seat, reaching over to crack open the window and let in the cool night air, thick with the scents of cut grass, a recent rainstorm and honeysuckle blossoms. Under it all, the pervasive reek of manure stung her nostrils.

  
            _Probably some kind of metaphor for places like this: all flowers and manicured lawns covering a ubiquitous layer of bullshit,_ she thought with a flicker of a smile, taking slightly too much pleasure in the moment of disdain she allowed herself to feel for the blind, huddled masses. _Cookie cutter houses, cookie cutter people._

  
            Shaking her head, Layla dragged her thoughts back to the present and focused again on the glare from the white and yellow lines that were devoured relentlessly beneath the wheels of her vehicle. The sounds of crickets and frogs rolled through the window and vied with the sound of the generic radio rock that emanated from her speakers. She lost herself in the haze of sounds and reviewed the facts of the case, turning them over in her mind like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle, trying to piece them together until a pattern emerged.

  
            Eleven people had gone missing in the area over the last six months. Seven of the missing had since been discovered as corpses; the most recent had been found five days ago. Police reports attributed the deaths to suspected animal attacks, citing bite wounds on the neck and legs. As if man-eating animals were common in the fucking heartland. Even out here, where plots of trees and fields of corn and soybeans outnumbered houses, she knew that the wildlife was not the man-eating type. The biggest wild predator one might run into here was a coyote and not the running in packs, circling houses type from imagination and story. These were the skinny skulking things that lurked solo in the shadows, raiding trash cans and chicken coops and occasionally making dinner of the family cat.

  
           These deaths and disappearances all sounded pretty monstery to Layla. It was probably a vamp nest but she knew it would be suicide to charge in on that assumption without more information. And yet, even as she drove, she mentally checked her jacket for the weight of the three syringes of dead man’s blood in her pocket. A U.S. Marine-issued Ka-Bar knife stretched the leather of her right boot slightly tighter than the left, a feeling she has grown so accustomed to she’s more prone to noticing its absence. On the floor boards, its handle just poking out from beneath the back of the passenger-side front seat, her favorite kukri-style machete lay just out of casual sight but quick to her hand.

  
          As she neared the edge of the small city, evidence of the prosperous shipping industry that once kept this town vital was visible in the rows of derelict warehouses and equipment hangars that loomed for miles along a mostly empty and abandoned airport. Only one ragged airstrip remained illuminated in the far corner of the monstrous complex. Rusting cargo crates lay scattered in the foreground and among the warehouses like the forgotten play things of a child.

  
         _God, I hope I don’t end up chasing anything through there. Looks like it was designed to be a monster’s playground._

  
         A distant flicker of lightning and rumble of thunder punctuated the thought and she couldn’t help but smile grimly at its timing. The distant glow of a motel sign drew her attention. She turned her car onto a cross street and pointed it in the direction of the promise of a shower and a bed. 

* * * * * 3 Days Later * * * * *

         The purring rumble of the Impala’s engine emerged as Dean reached over and flicked off the radio. “Go over it again. What are we looking at here?”

         Sam’s brow furrowed thoughtfully as he rearranged the pile of reports stacked on his lap. “Twelve people within a forty mile radius of this town have either gone missing or turned up dead in the last 6 months. Local authorities are attributing it to animal attacks.”

Dean gave a low whistle. “A dozen stiffs in six months? That’s quite the body count.”

  
       “Not necessarily. If they’ve only found eight bodies so far, depending on what we’re dealing with, the others might still be alive.”

  
       “So what are we dealing with, Sammy? What’s cause of death?”

  
       “Bite wounds, mostly to the neck so I’m thinking…

  
        “…vampires.” Dean spoke the final word in unison with his brother. Giving a slight nod, he leaned against the door of the Impala, angling to split his attention between the road and Sam. “What are we thinking on the other four? Blood bags or recruitment drive?”

  
       Sam hesitated, pursing his lips in thought as he mulled over the information before him. “I don’t know. Something just doesn’t seem to add up here. Vampires who play this messy don’t tend to stay in one spot very long, especially if they’re recruiting.”

  
       Dean nodded again, adding with a crooked smirk “Especially in small town, Nowhere, Ohio. Can’t be easy bringing up baby bloodsuckers in a town where everybody knows their names.”

  
       Sam grunted in agreement and continued in his typical, business-like tone, “Well, it doesn’t look like whatever’s doing this is planning on moving on any time soon. The disappearances, the bodies…they’re speeding up.”

  
      “You said the last body came across the police band last night, right?”

  
       “About 3 a.m. this morning, actually. You were still out with that physical therapist.”

  
       Dean shrugged and grinned with mock remorse, “Aww, Sammy, so much judgement, so little time. Let’s just focus on the case, right? That crime scene should still be active. I say we throw on our monkey suits and head straight there, before the locals stomp everything useful into the mud.”

  
       “Yeah…Yeah. Sounds like a plan.” Sam stowed away the papers, casting a concerned and frustrated look at his brother but biting down on any further comments. He didn’t want to repeat the same argument over. It’d been a common topic on the road, one that made the long drives seem longer. They’d had a good run recently and he didn’t want to ruin it now. As much as he tried to avoid it, he couldn’t help but see time passing as a countdown and he didn’t want to spend every last minute arguing. He knew it would come up again eventually but not now. Now, they have a job.

  
       As Sam turned to look out the window, watching the farmland slide by, he didn’t notice the flicker of emotion that crossed Dean’s face as, just for a fraction of a second, his bravado failed; he didn’t see the pale light of fear that sparked briefly in the depths of his brother’s eyes.

  
      Clenching his jaw, Dean tried to ignore the echo of his own words, playing on a loop in his mind: _“…so little time…so little time…”_ The tone of the engine revved higher as the Impala accelerated.

  

* * * * *

  
       Tracey Mackle, 29, female, two kids and now lying with her throat ripped out in a corn field, body contorted painfully. Despite the fact that a heavy rain the night before had turned the ground to a muddy slurry, it was still obvious to Layla’s eye that there was no blood mixed with the ooze around the body. The bloodless lacerations and bite marks along her extremities and the dead white cast of her skin further confirmed her earlier suspicions. Apart from the wounds themselves and the damage to the body from its careless disposal, the only blood that could be seen was what had soaked into her clothes. In the midst of the injuries to her arms and the spatters of mud quickly drying in the morning sun, Layla could barely make out a series of fresh needle marks in the crease of her elbow.

  
       “Ain’t you done breathing down my neck yet?” grumbled a voice above and behind her as she crouched in the field, examining the most recently discovered victim.

       “I’ll get off your back, Sheriff Greer, as soon as you catch whatever is scattering bodies like candy wrappers at the county fair,” she replied in a deliberate tone as she rose to her feet.

  
       She’d spent the last three days spinning her wheels, reviewing this man’s poor excuse for investigative work and talking to grieving and bewildered family members. None of them seemed to have a clue what was going on, especially the sheriff. Because the coroner had ruled the deaths as animals attacks, only bare bones procedures had been followed. Not so much as a tox screen had been collected and the previous bodies had all been released to the next of kin before Layla’s arrival. So far as she could tell, there didn’t seem to be any connection between the vics and she’d yet to figure out how these vampires were hunting. The bodies, the disappearances, all seem to be popping up randomly and 160 square miles of farmland and wilderness sprinkled generously with foreclosed houses and dead businesses was not helping her search or her patience.

  
       “Have you had any luck pursuing your animal attack scenario?” Layla inquired nonchalantly as she adjusted the jacket of her conservative, black business suit, only half listening to his droning response about quadrant searches while she surveyed the scene. The body lay about ten yards from the road, shrouded from the cars driving past by a thigh-high crop of corn. The lack of trampled vegetation told her this hadn’t happened here. There definitely wasn’t a struggle but a short path of crushed corn stalks appeared a few feet before the body, running nearly parallel to the road and ending at the body’s final location. Crossing her arms pensively, Layla glanced back to the road once more before turning to face Greer. “You’re wasting time and tax payer money searching for animals, Sheriff.”

  
        The sheriff, a portly and ungainly man, squeezed into a tan uniform that might have fit him well half a decade ago, spat a gob of tobacco juice to the side then hooked his thumbs into his belt haughtily. Rocking back on his heels, he spoke loudly enough to be sure he could be heard by the deputies and coroner crew that were swarming the scene. “I don’t know where you’re from, Agent Jett, and I don’t know what they teach you up at the Bureau,” he amped up his rural drawl for his audience, “but around here we see these big ol’ bite marks here with these sharp ol’ teeth marks there, and we tend to scratch humans off the suspect list.” A couple of the deputies standing nearby sniggered under their breath but Layla could see in her peripheral vision that most of the people around her were looking away, more embarrassed than amused by their Sheriff’s little speech.

  
        Gritting her teeth at his arrogance and bristling at the thought of sharing information with a man like this, she’d made her decision nevertheless. Tracey Mackle, the first body discovered since her arrival to this town, made the eighth dead body and the twelfth suspected victim.

  
        _He can’t keep chasing animals. People are disappearing too quickly and as long as they think it’s the big bad wolf, no one is going to take it seriously,_ she reminded herself in the face of her own hesitancy. To make matters worse, rumors were circulating that it was a bear or wild cat that had escaped from a private collector. People had begun posting up in their woods at night with their hunting rifles, trying to be the hero that bagged the man-killer. _This idiot’s got vampires tearing his town to ribbons and he’s riling folks up to march off into the dark looking for lions, tigers and bears. Oh my!_ Layla couldn’t point the man at vampires but she could at least stop him from delivering meals to their doorstep.

  
       She unfolded her arms and leaned forward, placing her hands calmly into her pockets and staring unblinkingly past his porcine features and deep into his beady eyes. Layla waited for the spark of uncertainty to show, the bead of sweat that suddenly glistened between his brows. Only then did she speak in a slow and measured tone: “Where I come from, we look for tracks and we collect all the facts, not just the easy ones. There’s a whole field of fresh mud and, as far as I can see, the only tracks out here are from you and your team. Not even a set from the vic. So would you care to explain to me how this big ol’ beast with its ‘big ol’ teeth’ managed to tear into this woman without ever touching the ground? As a matter of fact, I’d like for you to explain to me how she got 30 feet into a field and didn’t leave a set of her own.” After hammering the last word deliberately into place, she waited patiently.

  
       Adam’s apple bobbing, Sheriff Greer wilted under her silent scrutiny. The sweat bead lost its battle with gravity and fled down his chin. “I…well…the rain washed away the tracks, obviously.”

  
       “Ahh. Well, that explains it then.” Layla straightened up with a smile and Sheriff Greer must not have sensed the sarcasm because she could see him begin to relax as she went on: “And the lacerations on her arms and legs?”

  
       “Defensive wounds,” he added smugly. “She must’ve fought back when that damned critter ran her down.”

  
       “Hm. I suppose you could see it that way,” Layla turned away from the man and surveyed the scene once more as she proceeded: “but let me tell you what I see. I see a woman who bled out. I see clothes that have a lot of blood that dried on them and I see a lot of mud on top of that. You must get special rain storms in these parts because what I’ve never seen is a storm that washes away tracks but leaves the blood and mud to dry. So I can see that Tracey Mackle didn’t die here. I can see that she was dumped here and I can see that that happened after the rain but mostly…” Layla lowered her voice so that only the Sheriff could hear, “Mostly I see that you’re incompetent and a bully and not even very good at that. I can see that a small town popularity contest bought you a position that you’re not prepared for and I can see you’ve stepped in something way over your pay grade. And now I can see that you have decided to shut up, listen up and stop pretending that you know more than you do. Aren’t I right, Sheriff?”

  
       Looking down and removing his hat, Sheriff Greer slicked back his thinning hair with the sweat from his brow. He glanced away into the distance as he replaced it on his head. His face burned red to the tip of his ears and Layla could see him weighing his options. She was confident of his response and stood patiently awaiting the decision. As expected, he conceded her the victory by veering around the subject and following the path she’d laid for him. “So how’d she end up out there? And what sliced her up?”

  
       Lowering her head slightly to conceal the triumphant smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth, Layla turned and gestured, her hand tracing an ironically graceful arc through the air from the road to where the woman’s body lay. “She was thrown from a moving vehicle. Had to have been from a truck, something with an open deck, or there’d be no room for leverage. The corn stalks sliced her up as she tumbled…like a damn rag doll. They threw her away like fucking garbage. ” For a moment Layla’s disgust with the Sheriff was forgotten, overwhelmed by a surge of hatred for the things that did this.

  
       Sheriff Greer looked back and forth from the road to the mangled cadaver a few times. His face was doubtful and pensive. Layla could imagine the rusting gears struggling to turn after years of disuse. He could see she was telling the truth and she knew what he was going to say.

  
       “That’s a hell of a toss. She might’ve been a little thing but you’d have to…” he trailed off as he groped for an explanation.

  
       “You’d have to be very strong and you’d have to have help.” Layla finished bluntly as she began walking back to her car. The sheriff stared a moment longer before hustling to catch up with her.

  
        “We need to have a talk back at your office once you’ve gotten this cleared up, Sheriff,” she continued as she heard his plodding footsteps fall in time with hers. “You’ve been wanting to know why the FBI was involved in this and I think it’s time you did. In return, I need you to dig up full reports on every unexplained death and missing person report filed in the surrounding counties in the last year. Hell, I want every suspicious incident down to the drunk-and-disorderlies screaming about aliens. You got me?” She stopped briefly at the edge of the road to scrape the mud from her boots onto the wet grass and gravel.

  
        “Yeah. Sure. I’ll call over to the station and get a couple of the boys working on it right away.” He almost managed to hide the grudging tone of his voice.

  
        Layla nodded her appreciation and slid behind the wheel.

  

* * * * *

  
        As Sam and Dean stepped away from the Impala and toward the fluttering crime scene tape, a deputy scurried forward to intercept them, waving them back. Stopping just outside the tape, the pair flashed their badges impatiently. “Agent Willis. Agent Gills,” Dean supplied, gesturing first to himself then to his brother. “What d’ya say you point us to whoever’s running this little goat rodeo, huh?”

  
        The young deputy seemed taken aback and examined the badges a little too closely for the boys’ comfort before nodding his approval. A look of worried confusion hovered over the young man’s face as he gestured to the middle-aged, heavy set man standing in the cornfield, barking into his cell phone and surrounded by a small flock of scurrying deputies and crime scene technicians. “That’s Sheriff Greer over there.” He lifted the tape to allow the brothers to pass. They both noticed the wary glances the deputy was casting towards the Sheriff as they tucked the badges away and slipped under the barrier. They exchanged a questioning look, both of them starting to wonder if they might be missing a vital piece of information.

  
        Sam cleared his throat and addressed the officer, “So, Deputy…” He squinted to read the name on the badge in the glare of the sun, “…Forbes. While he’s busy on the phone, why don’t you fill us in on what we’re looking at here?”

  
        Deputy Forbes seemed to ponder the wisdom of this suggestion, eyes darting furtively between the brothers and the sheriff as if weighing which scared him more. “It’s…It’s a dead woman. Late 20s. Sheriff was convinced it was an animal, he thought …cause of the bites, you know, thought it was like all the others...it was an animal. But now they’re saying….Now I guess he doesn’t…” his voice stammered to a halt and the brothers leaned in slightly, expecting for a moment that he was going to continue.

  
        “What? Doesn’t what?” snapped Dean.

  
        Forbes’ eyes popped open fearfully, “…doesn’t think that?” He ventured. He rallied his courage a moment later as Sam and Dean rolled their eyes in exasperation. “I…I really shouldn’t say anything else until you talk to the Sheriff.”

  
        The brothers could see him visibly slump with relief when the sheriff holstered his phone a few seconds later. Reaching again for their counterfeit badges, they strode confidently up to Sheriff Greer and presented them for inspection. This time, Sam spoke up, “I’m Agent Gills. This is Agent Willis. We need yo…”

  
        “No! Fuck no!” the Sheriff growled as he whirled around on the two, not so much as glancing at the IDs as he glared at them. Struggling to maintain a mask of professionalism over their expressions of confusion, they slowly stowed the badges again.

  
         “Sheriff Greer…” Dean tried to interject forcefully, using what he liked to think of as his “Don’t Fuck with the Feds” voice.

  
         “No. I don’t care. I don’t care what you want, what you need or what you think. I’ve had my fill of Feds for the morning. You can catch up at the meeting with the rest of us.” Sheriff Greer’s eyes darted between them, daring them to continue.

  
         The brothers shared a frustrated scowl as understanding dawned. Dean’s jaw clenched as he rolled his neck and began to speak, knowing full well that he wouldn’t get to finish, “I see you’ve already spoken to…”

  
          “Yes. Damn it. She was already here. That bi-…” The brothers’ eyes widened slightly and the Sheriff quickly reconsidered his phrasing. He might have been able to get away with yelling at a couple pain-in-the-ass agents but something in the way this pair carried themselves said he might not want to risk insulting one of their fellow agents, let alone someone who might be a friend. He continued grudgingly, “She was here first thing, stomping all over the place, shouting orders, demanding files, even called a meeting in my own damn office this afternoon. I’ll have everything then. Then maybe you can tell me why the hell I’m up to my ass in chewed up dead folks and FBI.”

  
          Sam nodded and nudged his brother’s arm forcefully as he turned back towards the Impala. He knew Dean wanted nothing more than to tell off this officious prick. Hell, he did too but they couldn’t afford that now. There was too much hanging in the balance, both for their own sakes and for the people these vampires were feeding on.

  
           Dean made a point of meeting the Sheriff’s glare unflinchingly for a few extra seconds then dismissed him, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly into a scornful sneer before he followed Sam back to the road and the Impala. Once the doors slammed shut, the brothers both breathed out a sigh of tension. Checking for traffic, Dean pulled back out onto the two lane black top.

  
          Sam broke the silence a few minutes later. “This is bad, Dean.”

  
          “Tell me about it. That Sheriff Greer is an ass-hat and a half.”

  
          “That’s not what I mean. Dean, if the FBI’s already here…”

  
           “I know!” Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until the leather creaked audibly. “I know, Sammy, but we already laid our cards on the table. Are we gonna back out now? Just turn tail and let these bloodsuckers bleed this town dry? You said yourself this thing’s just revving up.”

  
           “So…what? We walk right up to the FBI and just hope they don’t recognize us? Don’t check out our credentials? As if jail time isn’t usually deterrent enough, we’re kind of working on a timeframe here…” Sam trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought or start that battle again right now.

  
           “I get it. I get it and you’re right but I’m not leaving. We don’t have anywhere else to go right now. No leads on my contract and people are dying. Here. Now. And we can do something about it. That FBI agent has no idea what she’s facing….”

  
           “…and she’s got Sheriff Greer for backup.” Sam’s tone of voice made it easily apparent how helpful he thought that would be. Dean could hear his brother’s resistance crumbling.

  
         “See, Sammy, I knew you’d see it my way. Have a little faith in our skill! No Podunk PD is going to hold us. Right?”

  
         The younger Winchester couldn’t help but laugh and shake his head at his brother’s audacity. “Right.”

  
         “Let’s set up at a motel then find some grub. What d’ya say? Might as well go to prison with a good meal in our bellies.” Dean only laughed harder when Sam rolled his eyes.

  

* * * * *

  
          Layla arrived at the Sheriff’s Department shortly after lunch. She briefly straightened her garments and checked her reflection in the mirror, running through the checklist, making sure the image portrayed was just right. She grabbed the leather file folder from the passenger seat and stepped out of the vehicle. An errant strand of dark brown hair escaped the conservative knot at the base of her neck and she tucked it behind her ear distractedly as she headed into the low brick building.

  
         Upon entering, she gestured to a young deputy she recognized from the crime scene earlier and he buzzed her through, picking up the phone to notify the sheriff of her arrival. He hung up the phone a moment later and addressed her, “Sheriff’s on a phone call. He’ll be right with you.”

  
         She nodded her appreciation and began glancing around the building. To stave off boredom she began mapping it in her head, extrapolating windows, exits, air ducts. Her gaze wandered back towards the deputy behind the desk and she noticed that he was watching her surreptitiously. She gave him the brief, awkward smile of unexpected eye contact and let her gaze slide past. Her attention, however, drifted back warily. He was short, maybe 5’6” in thick boots, and slender. His pale complexion and submissive posture made him seem younger than he was and she realized with a note of surprise he might have been older than her. He was obviously not a pro at watching without being seen, relying mostly on the fact that most of the other people here didn’t seem to notice him in the bustle of the office and he was unaware of her observation. For the moment, Layla dismissed him as idly curious, either professionally and/or sexually but she filed it away mentally.

  
        Her attention was hijacked by a sudden burst of shouting from the cell area and two other officers who had been lazing at their desks leapt to their feet and rushed through the heavy steel door. Layla could hear barked orders now battling for dominance with the raucous shouts. The deputy at the front desk watched the door indecisively but was granted a reprieve when the phone on the desk buzzed. He listened for a moment then spoke a few words of acknowledgement before returning the phone to its cradle. He stood and waved Layla over, ushering her into a large office, complete with a framed American flag and mounted deer head.

  
        The sheriff was standing by the door as Layla stepped in and he nodded to her distractedly before addressing the deputy, “What the hell is going on back there, Forbes?” he demanded.

  
        “Not sure, Sheriff. Meyers and Doyle are handling it though, I think,” he said uncertainly.

  
         “Good. Good.” The sheriff relaxed visibly and shooed Forbes away with a small sheaf of papers he had in hand. “Just show those other boys on back when they get here,” he ordered at Forbes’ back. The sheriff dropped the papers on the desk as he stepped around it and sank heavily into the leather chair. “I swear,” he said wearily, “this recession is killing us. All these folks outta work. If you can drink it, snort it, smoke it or shoot it, you can bet they are and every damned one of them is fighting over it. Now we got all this. I swear,” he repeated, “this town is going to hell.”

  
         It struck Layla that she’d only viewed this man single-mindedly through the lens of the vampire case she was working; she had forgotten about all the other burdens he might have on his shoulders. While she still thought he was pompous and unfit for his line of work, it didn’t mean he wasn’t trying or didn’t care and for a moment Layla felt a twinge of empathy. She knew all too well what it was to have her world crumbling around her so when she responded it was in a carefully measured tone, “That may be more literal than you realize, Sheriff.”

  
         His desk chair creaked loudly as he leaned back, spreading his hands out before him on the desk. He gave Layla a puzzled look. “Then I hope you’ve brought me some answers, Agent.”

  
         Layla held up the thick file folder for a moment before cradling it against her torso and flipping it open. This file was a masterpiece of doctoring, the nuclear weapon in her preemptive arsenal marked “In Case of Awkward Questions about Vampires.” If she played it right, this file should keep most of the ignorant players off the field while she worked. She had pieced it together a year before, after cleaning out a vampire nest in rural Missouri with the help of one Theresa McKinsey.

  
        Kinsey, as Layla called her, was Sheriff in that neck of the woods now but she’d cut her teeth on the Chicago PD, working the gang unit in a notoriously violent district on the south side. She’d carried that quick wit with her when she moved herself and her son to the country for the quiet life after her own run-in with a shifter made Chicago unfriendly, to say the least. She was one of those few exceptions to Options 1 and 2 and had ended up not only helping to clean out the nest of rogue vampires that had stopped in her town, she had also saved Layla’s ass and helped her slide out of there before anyone else connected the dots to her. Since then, she’d been a staunch ally and occasional partner, always ready with resources, research, or an alibi.

  
         The sheriff spoke up just as Layla was about to launch into the grand presentation. “You might as well hold up there, Agent. No sense in you having to repeat yourself. Let’s wait for the whole party.” Layla froze, careful not to let her features shift as her heart slammed into her ribcage.

  
         “Sheriff, I really think you should hear this before sharing it with your officers.” She ventured, praying that he was only referring to more locals.

  
        The answer to Layla’s question arrived in the form of a hesitant tapping at the open door behind her. Deputy Forbes stepped aside and two men in black suits entered the room. Layla’s heart gave a repeat of its percussive performance as her brain frantically tried to assess the situation and plan accordingly. Between the standard issue suits and the practiced casual swagger, she was pretty damn positive two Feds just walked in. _Now how the hell do I walk out?_ The frantic thought scampered across her mind.

  
        Layla flicked her gaze over them appraisingly. Both were in their mid-to-late 20’s, both clean shaven, athletically built and attractive. Although both stood over 6 feet tall, one loomed still further over the other. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the first man to enter. The shorter of the two men, his features were strong, chiseled and straight, his light brown hair cropped in a fade. Even from across the room, Layla couldn’t help but notice the flash of green as his eyes scanned the room. She might even have taken a moment to appreciate that spark or the strong cut of his jaw or the smooth contours of his face, if her mind wasn’t frantically trying to devise an escape plan. The agent assumed a confident pose opposite the sheriff, hands thrust in his pockets and Layla could read a hint of challenge in the set of his jaw as he eyed the man.

  
        The second man was a few inches taller, his hair and his complexion nearly the same color. Though his jaw was broad, his features were more angular, sharper and more pronounced. His brown hair was also good bit longer and distinctly less G.I. Although he wore the same casual confidence as his partner, his stance was more passive as if trying to minimize his daunting height. Layla couldn’t help thinking that he looked a little young and scruffy for an agent but knew she wasn’t one to judge or argue in her position. He also noticed the tension on his partner’s face and, giving the sheriff a conciliatory look, stepped forward to speak.

  
        He was interrupted as Layla’s worst fears of the moment were confirmed by Deputy Forbes, chiming in from the doorway, “Can I get y’all some coffee or anything, Agents?”

  
        The taller agent turned and replied, “No. Thanks.” His partner, in contrast, began examining the items arranged on the sheriff’s desk distractedly, “Nah, Forbes. I’m good.” Sheriff Greer dismissed the offer with wave of his hand and Layla realized just in time to avert suspicions of brain damage that they were all turning to her.

  
       “No..um, thank you, Deputy.” Deputy Forbes slipped out and closed the door.

  
        Layla recovered quickly and cleared her throat.

  
        _You’re in it now so you may as well go big._

  
        She straightened her shoulders indignantly as she continued, closing the folder before her as she addressed the agents. The confusion was easy but she pitched her voice a tad higher as if biting down on disappointment. “I’m sorry, Agents. I’m confused. I was under the impression that I would be working this case solo.”

  
        “You boys sure got good timing. Agent Jett here was just about to go through the run down. Seems she’s got all the answers.” Sheriff Greer gestured to the file Layla was holding.

  
        The taller agent stepped towards Layla and extended his hand to her. His grip was firm but not uncomfortable, confident not crushing, “I’m Agent Gills.” He gestured to his partner who still stood with his hands in his pockets and from the corner of her eye, Layla saw him appraising her much the same as she had them. His demeanor changed the instant Layla’s gaze went to him and he flashed a charming, almost goofy smile holding up a hand as he was introduced, “and this is Agent Willis. The Chicago regional office sent us down to follow up on the reported animal attacks.”

  
        “Jett,” Layla replied. “Cincinnati field office. And I’ve been following this thing for over a year. I can assure you, I don’t require backup.” Layla knew they wouldn’t leave if the regional office sent them. She just couldn’t believe that someone at the Bureau was actually starting to see the pattern. She decided to play it off as the zealous rookie, hoping this case will be her break. She hated to feign anything close to inexperience, especially in front of Greer who was watching the exchange with an amused expression. Still, she had to let them take the lead to avoid suspicion. Maybe if she could get them to feel sorry for her, they wouldn’t think to check her credentials.

  
         She briefly debated giving them one of the counterfeit cards that would link them to Kinsey’s cell phone and her alibi. She kept and continuously updated a number dummy phones from different area codes, all forwarded to Kinsey. Depending on the area code that popped up from the forwarding cell, Kinsey would know how to answer: FBI, US Marshalls, even the Forestry Service. She decided to play that card only if necessary. A working cover was like a complex machine and the more unnecessary parts, the more likely a piece could fail.

  
         _Heck, maybe, they’ll think they can pawn the work on the rookie and reap the rewards. If you play the sympathy card just right, best case scenario, they’ll help you pin down the nest. You’ll clear it and you’ll ditch town and your identity with no one the wiser. Worst case scenario: prison. No worries,_ she thought acerbically to herself.

  
         Agent Willis spoke as he sank into one of the two chairs, “Hey. We’re all just following orders here. And I just drove a hell of a long way so what say we all just get on the same page before we decide who’s going where?” His tone was conversational as he casually arranged his tie and settled into his seat.

  
        His partner nodded in agreement and perched on the arm of the chair nearest Layla. “Please, Agent Jett, catch us up with what you know.”

  
         _If I’m gonna burn anyway, I might as well give ‘em the show._

  
         Layla took a deep breath before plowing ahead. “These deaths are the work of a cult.” She braced herself for the incredulous looks that the agents shared between each other and the sheriff. She knew how ridiculous it sounded. Hell, she had made it up but the best lies always have that bit of truth. “A year ago in Missouri, this group rolled into a small town. They left five bodies like the one I saw today. Bite marks and exsanguination.” She laid out five crime scene photos on the desk as she spoke then paused for effect. “It won’t stop there. Soon you’ll be finding the decapitations.”

  
        She placed three more gruesome photos on the desk, watching the varying reactions of disgust and confusion on the faces of her audience. Little did they know that the second set of photos was of the vampires that Layla and Kinsey had beheaded for creating the first set of photos. “We believe it may be part of some kind of blood-drinking ritual, possibly something satanic.” She pointed vaguely towards some random graffiti scrawled in the background of a couple of photos. “We have reports from a girl who escaped that the members, or at least some of them, had their teeth filed to points. I assure you that when the autopsy on Tracey Mackle comes in, those bite marks won’t match an animal. They’ll match a human, a human with very sharp teeth.”

  
          A long awkward silence rolled across the room as Layla stared down at the sheriff unblinkingly, sweeping any tic of emotion from her face. One wrong move, one twitch of the lips, one wrong breath and it was all blown: her story, her cover and her freedom for the next 15-20 years. From the corner of her eye, Layla saw the agents exchange a meaningful glance. She wondered if they were thinking of calling for the jacket with the extra-long arms when Sheriff Greer chuckled uncomfortably.

  
         “So they’re vampires?” Greer asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and derision.

  
          Layla knew it was coming and she didn’t flinch as she responded evenly, “I don’t believe in vampires, Sheriff. Do you?” Greer scoffed and looked away, glancing towards Willis and Gills as if seeking support. “Sheriff,” Layla said flatly, reeling his attention back in, “I think everyone in this room knows full well that people do not need to be monsters to do terrible things.”

  
          “You’re telling me it’s actual _people_ mauling people here, Agent?” his tone appalled, Greer rubbed a hand down his face wearily, his expression hovering between disgust and defeat. Agent Gills’ brow was furrowed thoughtfully as he looked over the evidence Layla had laid out so far and she could see the muscles in Agent Willis’ jaw working as he gritted his teeth. She couldn’t quite read either of their expressions but at least they were still listening.

  
          Confidence bolstered, Layla charged onward, laying out copies of hand-written affidavits, “If you can call them that, Sheriff. These aren’t just any psychos. They’re smart and they’re opportunistic. I have reports from half a dozen other towns they’ve targeted in the last three years. The story’s always the same. Until now, this town was the biggest footprint they’d left.” Layla paused and pointed again to the photographs, her finger hovering over the last three, “Here’s where we really go down the rabbit hole, gentleman. These decapitations…these are members. The witness who escaped fingered them as being among her abductors. Other witnesses later placed them at the scene. It lines up with reports from the other towns too. We don’t know if the decaps are part of some bigger ritual or if it’s some kind of punishment for the ones who step out of line but they’ll turn up. I promise you that.”

  
          Layla paused again then arranged a stack of autopsy and toxicology reports on top of the photos. “Now for the strangest part: we have reason to believe that they’re experimenting with some unknown chemical substance. These decaps all have signs of unknown substances in their blood and whatever’s in their blood…” she laid out a still shot from a security cam, showing a police officer being thrown through the plate glass door of a gas station, “…lets them do things like this without breaking a sweat.”

  
          The two agents exchanged another coded look she couldn’t decipher. It was quickly becoming apparent that these two had worked together for a while. Sheriff Greer continued to stare blankly at the mass of pages, struggling to absorb what Layla had told him. Agent Willis cleared his throat and spoke first, gesturing to the stack of papers on the desk, “You’ve certainly done your homework here, Agent Jett. That’s uh….a lot to digest.”

  
          “To say the least,” said Gills as he stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “Sheriff Greer, when can we expect the coroner’s preliminary report?”

  
           The question startled Greer back into the moment and he grunted, “Oh…uh…should be here first thing in the morning.” Gills nodded and looked to his partner.

  
           Willis gestured again to the reports as he rose, “Can you get someone to run us a copy of all that?” The sheriff nodded in response and Willis turned back to Layla. “You’ve done a hell of a job here and we’re gonna need some time to go over all this but if you’re right about even half of it, you’d be crazy not to take backup. In the meantime, why don’t you rest up a bit while we visit the morgue? We can discuss who does what after Agent Gills and I catch up to you.”

  
          Meeting his eyes, Layla spoke in a determined voice. “Whoever these freaks are, they’re not going to be resting tonight.”

  
          The corner of his mouth twitched in approval and he extended his hand to her. “So let’s rip the top off this and figure out where they’re going.”

  
          Layla took his hand and shook it forcefully.

* * * * *

  
          As Layla spoke with the Sheriff about calling off his patrols and waited for Deputy Forbes to run off copies of her report, Sam and Dean excused themselves and stepped down a side hallway and into an empty conference room. Once out of sight, Dean deflated visibly, leaning against the wall and letting out a deep breath it felt like he’d been holding for ages. Sam stood across from him, hands in his pockets, his shoulders tense. Both took a moment to gather their thoughts, minds reeling.

  
          “Tell me this is not happening!” Dean hissed in a low, frustrated tone, his eyes wide, searching in the distance as he tried to sort through it.

  
           Sam opened his mouth, starting to speak but unsure what to say. With a resigned shrug, he responded, “Looks like it is.”

  
           Dean flipped back the side of his jacket and put one hand on his hip, the other emphasizing his words. “Sam, you heard her in there! Half a dozen towns with people bled dry and decapitated bodies? You know what she’s tracking!”

  
           Sam nodded and lowered his head, determined to keep his voice calm despite the staccato rhythm in his chest. “She’s tracking a hunter,” he affirmed, knowing what his brother suspected.

   
           “You know, Sam, you seem pretty damn calm considering that we...” he flicked a hand back and forth between himself and Sam, lowering his voice further still “…are hunters, not FBI! I don’t think you’ve grasped the severity of the shit we are standing in.”

  
          “Dean. I get it. I’m not stupid but freaking out isn’t going to help either.” Sam made a placating gesture, trying to calm his brother.

  
          Dean ignored the attempt to assuage him and began pacing the width of the small room as he continued his rant, “Not only do we have Agent Jett out there tracking a hunter, she’s going to wade right through one of the meanest vampire nests we’ve encountered to find him!”

  
          Sam took a deep breath, “Yeah. It’s a mess. But look at it like this…she tried to hide it but I know you saw her crumble when we came in. She doesn’t know we’re not FBI and she might be green but you also saw her research, she’s smart. You wanted to stay, Dean. Now we just know there’s even more on the line than we thought but for now, we can work this. The plan hasn’t changed. We’re still hunting vampires here.”

  
          Dean stopped his anxious pacing and turned back to his brother, a crooked grin of disbelief tugging at the corner of his mouth. His brother watched as he mulled over what had been said then cocked his head in acquiescence. “She is smart.” His grin widened and he shrugged, raising his eyebrows playfully at Sam. “Kinda cute too.”

  
          “Dean…” Sam groaned admonishingly.

  
          “Calm down. I’ll behave.” Dean shook his head in exasperation. “So…we’re hunters posing as FBI agents to protect an FBI agent who is tracking a hunter. That’s just great.”

  
         Sam held up a hand to forestall any further discussion, his eyes flicking pointedly towards the door where he could hear the sound of footsteps approaching with hurried determination. Dean turned as Deputy Forbes slid to a halt at the door, “Agents, Sheriff wants you out front. They just found another body.”

* * * * *


	2. Predator or Prey - Cute and Shady - The Hunt is On - One Step Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a small town in Ohio, the second body has been discovered since the arrival of Layla Parker and the Winchesters . The hunters arrived looking for a particularly nasty vampire nest but the body they find is not the one they were expecting. Its appearance only raises more questions and more doubts. While Layla and the Winchesters are circling, something else is hunting in this town. The dangerous dance continues as the hunters race to uncover who is enemy and who is friend before death or law enforcement, or both, catches up with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick reminder of characters and their covers:
> 
> Layla = Agent Jett  
> Dean = Agent Willis  
> Sam = Agent Gills  
> 

 

* * * * *

         For the second time that day, Layla found herself standing over a dead body. At least this one wasn’t baking in a muddy field but Layla couldn’t take much comfort in that fact as she stood in the empty house. With a scowl, she turned her eyes from where the body lay crumpled against the wall and followed the trail of the blood to where its head had apparently rolled to the middle of the room. Although Layla knew that she hadn’t done this, she knew it couldn’t be a coincidence either.

         _As if things weren’t complicated enough. Now I’ve got company…and apparently they don’t pick up after themselves._

        The man to whom these pieces had belonged appeared to have been in his early 30’s, stocky in build with shaggy, sandy hair. His blue eyes stared fixedly towards his own body and Layla couldn’t help but think they had an amusingly befuddled expression about them. The fact that he was a deceased vampire, not a human, rather assuaged any guilt she might have otherwise felt about that thought.

        Agents Gills and Willis stood across the room, eyes sweeping the grisly scene from the opposite direction. They exchanged a look of consternation then fixed their gazes on Layla in unison.

        “Looks like you were right,” Agent Willis said. His tone was cautious and he watched her reaction closely as he spoke.

        “You sound surprised by that.”

        “Frankly, I’m finding this whole thing pretty damn surprising.” Willis locked his eyes with hers as he spoke. She bristled under his scrutiny. There was something about the way his eyes bored into hers that she found distinctly uncomfortable, as if she could feel him peeling back her layers.

        Layla regarded him with a pointedly unamused expression, folding her arms as she responded, “Is there something you would like to ask me, Agent Willis?”

        Agent Gills cleared his throat, cutting through the tension that was rising as Layla and Willis faced off. Layla grudgingly broke off the staring contest and looked to Gills as he changed the subject, “Have they IDed the vic yet?”

        Layla shook her head. “Not so far as I know. No wallet or ID. He doesn’t match any of the missing persons’ reports. Unless they get a hit off the prints, it looks like we’re dealing with a John Doe.”

        Gills nodded and glanced to his partner, who was still watching Layla warily, before he inquired further: “And the person who found the body? We have a few questions.”

        Layla nodded her agreement and glanced around, scanning over the small group of officials who were milling about outside the door. She saw Forbes watching them curiously. She waved the anxious man over with a reassuring smile.

        “Deputy, do you know who found the body?”

         Forbes rested his hands on his belt nervously, “Name’s James Korski. His brother, Don, owns the house. He’s outside talking to the sheriff now.”

         Layla nodded her thanks and gestured for him to lead the way. Gills and Willis followed the pair outside.

         On the wide porch of the two-story house, a tall man in his late 30s was talking with Sheriff Greer. His frame was wiry and his features seemed haggard for his age. His hair was dark and a thick layer of stubble shadowed a narrow jaw. A classic, black-and-red rose tattoo adorned the side of his neck.

         Layla noted that he seemed more annoyed with the present circumstances than anything else. Not disgusted, not scared, not even surprised. A quick glance over at the two agents told her that they had noticed as well. The sheriff halted their conversation and gestured to Layla and the agents as they approached, running through the list of introductions.

         Agent Gills spoke first, “Mr. Korski. I appreciate you taking a moment to answer our questions.”

          The man snorted in aggravation. “Yeah, well, I don’t. I don’t got time for any of this. I’ve got a team of contractors supposed to come in and remodel. I’ve been waiting three months and now I gotta wait until who-knows-when ‘cause…what? Some…some squatter got hisself killed?”

          Layla’s jaw clenched at the man’s response. He couldn’t know the corpse belonged to a vampire and the way he could dismiss an apparent murder for the inconvenience riled her.

          Surprisingly, it was Sheriff Greer who intervened on the agents’ behalf. “C’mon, James. The more you drag your feet, the longer this’ll take.”

          The man scowled but nodded. “Look. I don’t know anything. I came here to meet with the foreman and go over the renovations and when I unlocked the house, there he was."

           Layla cocked her head thoughtfully, “When you unlocked the house?”

           “Yeah. Unlocked the house. That’s generally how you get inside.”

          She ignored his patronizing comment and went on, “And your brother, Don…he owns the property?”

           With a much put-upon sigh, the man nodded. “But he doesn’t come here. Hell, don’t think he’s seen it since he signed the papers. He’s just trying to flip it for some cash, ya know?”

           Layla grunted her acceptance of his statement and gestured to the agents, indicating she had no more questions. Agent Gills resumed his questioning as Agent Willis stepped away, walking down the porch and looking over the scene appraisingly. Layla likewise excused herself from the conversation and climbed down from the porch. She began to make a circuit of the house, glancing over the window and door frames for signs of entry. As she rounded the back of the house, she saw Agent Willis coming around the opposite corner. His expression was pensive and Layla could tell he was looking for the same thing she was.

           Willis noticed her about the same time and she could see him rearrange his expression purposefully. Before his features settled back into a look of wary professionalism, Layla caught a hint of reluctant approval flit across his face.

           “Let me guess,” Willis said quietly, “no forced entry on that side either?”

           Layla shook her head. “Something tells me this “squatter” wasn’t the lock-picking type either,” she said as she walked across the yard and accompanied him back around to the front of the house. Deputy Forbes was walking back toward the porch from one of the cruisers. Layla pulled him aside as he began to pass the two of them. Agent Willis stopped beside her, observing quietly.

           “Hey, Forbes. What can you tell us about the guy who owns this place?” Layla purposefully dropped the formality from her voice.

           Forbes rubbed a hand across the back of his neck pensively, “Don Korski? He runs what’s left of Aero-Post. Don’t know how he turned that business around but he’s probably the only guy in this town who’s actually making money right now.”

           “What’s so special about him?” Layla inquired.

            Forbes shrugged. “Dunno. Luck of the draw, I guess.”

            Layla found herself exchanging a doubtful glance with Agent Willis. They both seemed to realize this at the same moment and quickly averted their gazes.

            “Thanks, Forbes.”

            The deputy touched the brim of his hat and nodded as he turned away.

            “Yeah. Thanks a lot, Lone Ranger,” Agent Willis mumbled in a light-heartedly mocking tone.

            Layla shrugged. “There’s worse things to be, I guess.” She was startled to find herself smiling slightly at Willis’ comparison. She quickly composed herself and gestured back to where Agent Gills and Sheriff Greer were still talking. James Korski was leaning impatiently against his Explorer, a glower plastered on his features.

            “You were right; you and Agent Gills should take the night to look over my files and then, I think, we should all go have a talk with the other Mr. Korski in the morning.” Willis nodded and started towards his partner then hesitated and turned back to Layla, “What are you going to do?”

             “I should do some digging on Aero-Post before we head out there.” Layla offered. It was true, technically. She did intend to look them up but she had bigger plans for the night, plans that definitely did not include a couple of Feds tagging along.

            Willis nodded then regarded her for a long moment and Layla fought the urge to squirm beneath his appraisal. As before, there was something about the way he met her gaze that left her feeling almost naked and she shuddered mentally. She was so used to layering one cover over another that some mornings it felt like she had trouble remembering her real name or who she was supposed to be that day. The idea that someone else might be able to look past all that so easily, when even she barely could anymore, almost made her tremble with uncertainty. It was not a feeling she welcomed and she shoved it under a tide of aggravation, with herself, with the agents for showing up, with whoever had left the mess in the Korski house, but mostly with this gorgeous bastard that seemed to see right through her. For a moment, she feared that some trace of her thoughts must have slipped through the cracks when the corner of Willis’ mouth twitched into a crooked smirk.

           In parody of Forbes’ earlier maneuver, he touched his hand to his forehead with a sly grin as if tipping an invisible hat. “You have a good night, Agent.”

 

* * * * *

          Dean kicked the motel room door closed behind him, his duffel in one hand and a bag of carryout from a diner up the road in the other. Sam tossed his bag on the far bed and set his laptop, a six pack and the files they had gotten on the small table near the window. Discarding his duffel in a similar fashion, Dean settled at the table and began parceling out their meals.

         “I’m telling you. There is something off about Agent Jett.” Dean gestured emphatically with his cheeseburger in hand.

         Sam flipped open the container of his salad and began mixing it around. “I thought you said she was cute.”

         Dean shrugged. “She is. Cute and shady.”

         “You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that. This whole situation is more than a little shady.”

         “I can’t explain it. It’s just….it’s obvious she knows more than she’s letting on. That file of hers is not rookie work.” Dean’s voice was muffled as he spoke around a mouthful of hamburger.

         “She might just be really good at her job, Dean. I mean, eventually someone at the FBI was bound to notice a pattern. And whoever’s in town hunting obviously isn’t the quiet type.” Sam’s voice sounded annoyed about the last point, recent events being exacerbated by the thought that at least some of the towns in Agent Jett’s files were probably this hunter’s handiwork as well. He pushed his salad slightly to the side, making room for the file as he flipped it open and started leafing through it.

         “And Bobby said no one’s working the area?”

         “Not as far as he knows but Bobby can’t keep track of every hunter out there.”

         “Huh.” Dean chewed thoughtfully then pointed the burger at his brother again. “There’s something else weird about this mystery hunter. He hacks off a vamp’s head and just leaves the body?”

         Sam shrugged noncommittally, “Maybe he got interrupted when Korski showed. We haven’t been able to ditch every body we’ve left behind either.”

         “Then took the time to lock the house behind him?” Dean gave his brother an extremely doubtful look as he went on, “And I didn’t see a mark anywhere that someone broke in. So what…a conscientious vampire looking for a place to nap decided to discretely pick the locks and gets jumped by a hunter, then the hunter gets interrupted and locks up as he leaves? None of that makes sense.”

        “You’re right. It doesn’t.”

        Sam sighed heavily, obviously just as confused and frustrated as his brother. Grabbing a couple of beers, he opened them both and set one out for Dean. He took a swig from his then set it down, turning his attention back to the file spread on the table.

        “So what about our missing persons? Did Jett note any connections, any patterns at all?”

        “Not really. I can’t say I can blame her either.” He began flipping through page by page as he spoke, “The first three were found dead on backroads alongside their cars which had flat tires or engine trouble; no previous missing person report filed.”

        Dean nodded as he popped a fry in his mouth, “Pretty typical M.O. for a wandering vamp nest. Then what?”

        Pausing to quietly tally what similarities he could make out, Sam then proceeded with his rundown, “These disappearances: some just never came home from work, some were going out to bars, one was coming home from Bible study. And get this… the last four to disappear have been found dead in different wooded areas but the first four are still just missing. Then Tracey Mackle: no missing person’s report, found dead in a field, thrown from a truck.”

        “I get the first three by the cars but why wasn’t this Tracey Mackle reported missing?” Dean asked and took a sip of his beer, setting aside the remnants of the burger and leaning forward on his elbows.

        “Same as the first three: wasn’t gone long enough.” Sam responded simply.

        “Huh.” Dean leaned back, draping one arm over the back of his chair, beer in the other hand on the armrest. “If there’s a pattern there, I sure as hell don’t see it. So how are these bloodsuckers hunting?

        Sam shrugged and opened his laptop, a thoughtful look on his face as he typed. He studied the screen for a moment then angled it so Dean could see. He had a map of the area pulled up on the display.

       “The first three fit the usual pattern,” Sam traced his finger along one of the smaller highways that ran through town. “It looks like they grabbed two on their way into town, slipped through or around, then picked up the third on their way out.”

        “Their way out?” Dean asked in confusion.

        “Yeah. It’s like they were planning on just blowing through but something made them stop. Look.” Sam began pointing out smaller towns in the surrounding areas. “If you look at where the ones found dead used to live, not where they were found, it’s like they’re moving clockwise, targeting a different small town each time. If I’m right, then this town…” he tapped a spot on the map, “…should be their next target.”

       “Attaboy!” Dean thumped his palm on the table and stood quickly. “Unless you want me to drop you at Bible study, I say we hit the bar.”

       Sam rolled his eyes and closed his laptop, rising from the table with markedly less enthusiasm about lingering in a bar, hoping for a break. Dean licked his lips and grinned, rubbing his palms together; he spoke with an air of exaggerated gravitas:

      “Sam. It’s our duty.”

 

* * * * *

        Layla stared at the array of different color push pins arrayed on the map on the motel room table. She leaned forward on her palms, her shoulder pressing her phone to her ear.

       “So you don’t know of any hunters working the area?”

       “Honey,” Kinsey’s voice sounded on the other end of the line, “it’s not like we keep a social calendar. I called everyone I could think of and no one’s nearby. My people have better manners than that anyway, as you know. We clean up our messes.”

       “Kinsey. This is seriously fucked. I’ve got FBI breathing down my neck and a sloppy hunter’s just gonna make the heat even hotter. I need to know who killed that bloodsucker.”

        “Don’t borrow trouble. Just focus on the job. You know the next step. All you can do at this moment is head to that bar and hope a vampire, a hunter or preferably both walk in.”

        “You make it sound like I’m writing a joke,” Layla snorted.

        “The sooner you realize this life’s all one big joke, the happier you’ll be, Layla. All you can do is roll with it.” Kinsey replied with a laugh. Her voice was warm and rich as always and when she laughed it was a full-hearted, belly laugh that Layla couldn’t help but smile at.

        “You’re probably right.”

        “You know it. I always am.” She laughed again. “Now get your ass out there. If you don’t find anything nasty, just bring something pretty back to your room instead,” Kinsey’s tone left no question as to what she was referring to.

         “Yeah. Sure. That’s the last thing I need right now,” Layla said with a silent eye-roll.

         She could picture Kinsey shrugging. “Your choice but it’ll do wonders for that tension, girl.”

         “Thanks, Kinsey,” Layla said sarcastically, eliciting another belly chuckle. “Anything on Aero-Post or the Korskis? That guy was hiding something today. I can smell it.”

         “Nothing on Aero-Post yet. I’ll have the lowdown waiting in your e-mail by morning. So far as I can tell, Don Korski’s clean as a whistle until they make driving poor folks outta their houses a crime. His brother’s another story though. James has a pretty extensive record: assault, possession, intent to sell and a couple gun charges but it looks like he cleaned up his act about a year ago; started working for his brother, paid off his fines and been keeping his nose clean since.”

         “Huh. I guess he’s just your average schmuck then. Explains the vibe he gives, I guess.” Layla was unconvinced that there wasn’t something hidden there but she’d let the FBI sort that out, she just had to play along till the vamp nest was eliminated.

         “Thanks, Kinsey. Seriously.”

         “Anything for my girl. You be careful out there.” Kinsey’s voice grew stern as she spoke the last part.

         “Yes, ma’am.” Layla responded with overstated obedience and hung up but not before she heard Kinsey laughing again.

 

* * * * *

         Gravel crunched beneath the tires of the black sedan as Layla pulled into a space alongside the bar. The sun had just dipped behind the curve of the earth and a slight glow still suffused the horizon. The bar was the only building on the town’s one small strip of businesses whose windows were still lit at this hour. The sound of raucous voices and country music suffused the area and a small group of people lounged around the entrance smoking cigarettes.

          Layla flipped down the visor to check her reflection. The conservative makeup that she’d worn earlier had been replaced with a much more florid application, dark liner and smoky shadow accenting the swirl of her hazel eyes. Burgundy lipstick and a light layer of rouge completed her facial transformation. She tried on the coy, sensual smirk that would be her disguise for the evening, just the right mix of ‘come hither’ and ‘in your dreams.’

         Stepping out of the black sedan, she stretched and adjusted her clothing casually. She wore a thin, black canvas jacket over her white v-neck despite the balmy night; one side was weighted down with two syringes of dead man’s blood, the other with a large wrist-action folding knife. Her blue jeans were made of stretch denim to allow ease of movement and a pair of knee-high black boots with low, serviceable heels completed the look.

         She’d have to leave most of her weapons in the trunk for now. She hoped she wouldn’t need them here anyway. If things went as she hoped, she’d find one the parasites and track it back to the nest. Then, there’d be time to go in strategically. Having mostly hunted alone for the last 6 years, she had learned to pick the ground of her confrontations carefully. Of course, all of that depended on the assumption that the vampires wouldn’t make themselves known in public. They hadn’t so far, and usually didn’t, but something in the way this was playing out made her doubt if these vampires would follow the usual rules.

         Shaking her dark hair back over her shoulders, she made her way past the small crowd outside. Although she acknowledged them with a smile, behind her pleasant demeanor, she watched the variety of responses with a methodical consideration. No warning bells sounded as she passed the group and reached the door. Their expressions as she passed betrayed only mundane emotions: curiosity, lust, jealousy – all typical reactions to an attractive outsider in a small town. No real hunger, no predatory gaze.

         Layla could feel the vibrations of the music on the brass handle as she pulled the door open and stepped inside. The business was fairly typical for its type with an abundance of neon beer and liquor signs that cast the booths and patrons in a flat, green-gold ambience. As she walked down the bar that ran along the length of the right-hand wall, she easily dismissed the four older men sitting near the entrance and the wall-mounted TV, on which balding men yelled about sports. It was obvious they were locals and regulars, known to each other and the stout bartender by name. She settled onto the last stool where the bar wrapped around and merged with the wall, propping her back against the corner to inspect the crowd.

         A pair of young couples was dancing near the back of the bar, near a door that led outside and behind the building. Near them, another couple was completely engulfed in each other’s embrace in one of the brown, vinyl booths. About half of the other booths and tables were occupied by individuals or small groups; of these, it seemed at least half contained one person who was nodding drunkenly. On the surface, the atmosphere seemed light but Layla could sense something amiss in the ebb and flow of the crowd. Nothing stood out to her immediately and her attention was diverted as the barman asked for her order with a friendly smile and rustic drawl.

         Layla ordered a shot of bourbon to take the edge from her nerves and a Pabst to linger over. She watched the human behavior unfold around her, alert for the exception, the expression which crossed from lust to hunger, the look that lingered a bit too long on the neck, or the silent pack-like communication that all social predators share among themselves as they single out prey. Nothing definite stood out to her, definitely nothing vampy, but a nagging sensation at the back of her mind told her she might be in the right place.

          A commotion erupted from the nearby door to the restroom. The sounds of arguing barely preceded the expulsion of a young man who stumbled through the door and slid across the floor. He was gaunt, almost emaciated, and he scrambled away from the stout man who had shoved him through. His hooded eyes and the unsteady, wavering way he climbed to his feet made it apparent he was under the influence of something other than alcohol. He held up his hands in a defensive posture as the other man stepped forward menacingly and called to the bartender who was hurrying around the bar.

       “Hey Frank, this piece of shit was shooting up in there.”

        The bartender scowled but didn’t say anything, inserting himself between the patrons. The small man was spitting venomous, slurring curses at the other. Frank started to reach a firm hand toward the smaller man, obviously being about to escort him out. Layla saw the small man tense to take a swing but before she could react, Frank had grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it behind his back with a speed belying his age and build. He shoved him forcefully towards the back door and the man stumbled, trying to catch himself on a chair but only managing to tangle his legs in it. He fell over it and flat on his face, not even able to raise a hand to break the fall.

        Layla straightened quickly as the final event unfolded and the man’s face collided with the hardwood floor. She stood from her stool, knowing this would be her moment. Blood began to stream from the young man’s nose and Layla pushed her way forward through the other people backing away. She scanned the crowd astutely.

       _There._

       In contrast to the typical, human looks of bloodlust and derision that always paint the faces of crowds who gather round brawls, the couple who had been making out in the secluded booth had turned to watch and gone utterly still. Their eyes locked on the rivulet of blood that began to run from the prone man’s nose, frozen like serpents about to strike. The small man had fallen almost at the couple’s feet and the two began to edge forward out of the booth. The blond female laid a hand on her companions shoulder and whispered something into his ear. Layla couldn’t even feel particularly proud of herself for spotting the vampires in the crowd; they weren’t even bothering to feign indifference.

        Frank had hauled the man to his feet and after a quick search of the man’s pockets, took his keys and dragged him toward the back door. The small man staggered along in woozy obedience, cupping a hand to his bleeding nose. The vampires rose from their seats and the male stepped forward, stopping the bartender with a hand on his shoulder.

        "Hey, Frank, right? We’ll drive him home.”

        Frank grunted, “You know him?”

        The black haired man smiled sociably and took the small man’s arm. “Well enough,” he said.

        Frank seemed to ponder this then he obviously decided it was not his problem; in fact, it neatly ridded him of his problem. He shrugged and let go roughly. “He can pick up his keys when we open. Then, I never want to see him again.” He glared at the young man sternly.

         Layla almost began to step forward but realized she couldn’t risk intervening in view of the crowd. It was better to wait. The vampires would take the man back to the nest before feeding and she was better off slipping into the crowd and out the front door to get her car. The bloodsuckers would also be driving and she had to be able to keep up. She began to shrink back from the scene before the conversation had ended and she quickly exited via the front door. The rest of the patrons were watching the events near the back of the bar and none seemed to notice her departure.

         She quickly looped her hair into a tight bun as she jogged to her car. Once inside with the engine running, she pulled the vehicle from its spot. Keeping her lights off for the moment, she inched the sedan back to where the lot joined with the alley that ran behind the building, rolling down her windows to get a clear view. She watched through the passenger-side, as the couple guided the disoriented man through the door.

         All she had to do was wait until they turned toward the parking lot, then pull forward and observe from her rearview which vehicle they went to; then, she’d loop around and follow. It was definitely not ideal but it was the best she could do. A showdown in the alley would expose her, risk other people in the bar who might try to help, and probably let the rest of the nest escape. And the last thing she needed was more attention. Maybe she could even wrap this up and be gone by morning.

         She started to let the car roll forward as the door from the bar swung closed, expecting them to turn towards her. Instead, the vampire couple glanced around quickly and tightened their grip on the man’s arms, dragging him farther down the alley away from Layla.

         Assuming the vampires had parked somewhere else, which was smarter than she had expected, Layla pulled forward out of the alley and turned parallel to them, stopping where she could see down the next alley. The couple was dragging the man more roughly now as they turned down the alley towards Layla. She pulled forward slowly in order to observe and track them from a distance but a flurry of movement caught her eye. She caught only a glimpse of the woman snatch the man up by the front of his shirt and slam him into the wall. She veered the car off the road and jerked the handbrake up roughly.

       _This is NOT happening! This isn’t how it happens!_

        Her mind raged impotently but her body took over. Grabbing the kukri-style machete from beneath the passenger seat, Layla darted from the car and down the alley. She pulled a syringe from her pocket and palmed it in her left hand, biting off the cap as she ran. The blonde female already had her teeth in the addict’s neck, one hand covering his mouth. Her partner easily pinned the man’s arms behind him, his own back turned to Layla.

        There was no sneaking up now and she prayed no one else from the bar would wander into the alley. The male vampire heard the thud and scrape of her boots in the rough alley and whirled as she approached. As soon as she was close enough, she brought the machete around in a strong overhand swing towards the bloodsucker’s neck.

         The male vampire darted forward in response and snaked out a hand to intercept hers, catching her wrist in a vice-like grip. Layla thought she could hear her bones grind together but this was what she’d hoped for. She thrust her left hand forward and jammed the syringe into the vamp’s chest, slamming home the plunger in the same motion. A shocked look spread over the man’s face as his grip loosened. He snarled weakly at her as he sank to her knees and she tugged herself from his grip easily.

          To her surprise, she looked to the other vampire and found her still feeding on the man fixedly as if not registering or caring about what was going on three feet away. She had wrapped her free arm around the man to keep hold of him and her eyes seemed glazed over dully.

          Layla quickly fished out the other syringe of dead man’s blood. As she pulled the cap free with her teeth and began to step around the man, the vampire suddenly jerked her mouth from his neck. With a bestial growl, she hurled the small man at Layla and sent them both sprawling. In order to avoid impaling the somewhat innocent bystander, Layla had to release the machete and let it fly from her hand as they collided. The syringe likewise skittered away down the alley.

          Untangling herself quickly, she climbed as far as her knees before shoving the man down the alley as best she could.

          “Run!” she snapped.

          The entire exchange had taken only seconds and though he was bleeding steadily, the young man’s blood loss had not been too bad yet. Adrenalin was obviously overriding whatever ill effects it and the drugs he was on might have had and he scurried away obediently.

           What felt like a wrecking ball struck Layla between the shoulders and she barely managed to twist as she fell, landing on her left side instead of on her face. She felt the weight of the vampire land on her milliseconds later and she slammed her elbow up and back, twisting her whole torso into the blow.

          It wasn’t a clean hit, the fleshy part of her triceps rather than her elbow connecting with the vampire’s cheek, but it dislodged some of the she-vamp's weight long enough for Layla to wriggle onto her back. Layla barely managed to bring her left hand up and catch the bitch’s throat as her blonde head lunged downward, jagged, shark-like retractable teeth snapping inches from Layla’s face. The muscles in Layla’s arm trembled and she knew she couldn’t hold more than a few seconds but somewhere in the back of her mind, a calmly detached part noted something odd: This thing isn’t even fighting; it’s just attacking blindly, like a rabid animal.

         Layla wasn’t about to complain about that. She managed to retrieve the wrist-action knife from her right-hand pocket and flip it open. She brought her hand up under the vampire’s arm and jammed the blade down into the side of the snarling vampire’s neck.

          The bitch shrieked in pain and reared back but Layla clung tightly to the knife’s handle, ripping it free against her momentum. Layla scrambled backwards as the thing rose on its knees, kicking herself backwards to where the machete lay a few feet away.

         The blonde vampire rose to her feet….and ran.

          Layla had not been expecting that. She sat in shock for a second then hurried to her feet and sprinted to her car which was still running outside the alley. She pulled quickly up to the other vampire’s prone form. She popped the trunk open and started to climb out before the car had even stopped completely. Grunting with the effort, she dragged the unconscious vampire around to the back of the car and into the trunk. She snatched up her scattered weapons, including both syringes then ducked into her car and drove away. It took her barely more than a minute. She was careful not to speed, not to draw attention, as she pulled past the alley behind the bar and onto the main street. As soon as she was outside the small town, she disappeared onto the twisting backroads.

 

* * * * *

        Dean didn’t like the idea of parking the Impala next to a bunch of other cars with people climbing in and out drunkenly; he didn’t want his baby getting dinged up so he parked her on the street a short distance away from the bar. Both the Winchesters had shed their FBI garb and were dressed casually. Both carried syringes of dead man’s blood in their pockets, knives on their belts and guns tucked fastidiously under the backs of their jackets.

         “I hope you’re right about this, Sam.” Dean said as he stepped out of the car and examined his surroundings, his hands resting idly in the pockets of his weathered, brown leather jacket.

         “Something tells me you’ll find something to occupy you,” Sam replied with a smirk and only a tiny hint of disapproval. “Just try to remember we’re working.”

          Dean’s tone was affronted as he started walking towards the bar. “Dude, I’m always professional.”

           Sam stopped and regarded his brother, waiting for him to recognize the irony of that statement but Dean only grinned innocently under his brother’s gaze. Dean stopped on the sidewalk beside him and they both looked thoughtfully down the street to the bar.

          “So do we even have a specific plan here?” Sam asked doubtfully, wondering if his brother was here 100% for the hunting and not the possibility of a little partying. Dean shrugged. “Ask questions. Be friendly. See who’s new to town, who doesn’t belong. You know the drill.”

          Sam nodded, seeming unencouraged, but they both started to walk again towards the noisy building. As they neared the front entrance, a few people were trickling out, lighting cigarettes as they talked excitedly. As the group parted around them, the brothers heard a scream echo across the parking lot on the far side of the building. They pushed through the small throng of people as carefully as they could and took off running towards the sound.

          As they came around the side of the bar they saw a blonde woman clutching her neck run unsteadily up to a dark blue extended-cab pick-up truck parked near the rear of the lot. Her clothes were drenched in blood and she scrambled into the truck frantically. Sam and Dean called out to her but the truck’s door was barely closed before the engine roared to life and she threw the vehicle into reverse. The brothers had to scramble to the side to avoid being run down as she backed out of the space and tore out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel. Both men covered their faces, receiving a couple stinging blows, and they could hear the small stones pinging off the cars around them.

          They exchanged a frustrated look and rushed towards the alley. People were streaming out of a back door and for a moment, they saw nothing amiss besides a small trickled path of blood. As they started forward, however, they noticed in the distance a black sedan driving quietly down the cross alley. They each glanced to the other to see that he also had noticed. They didn’t mention it now as they grew closer to the growing cluster of excited, worried people.

         The people huddled curiously around the back entrance to the bar, talking frenziedly among themselves; a few were on their cell phones. Dean picked out a pleasant-looking girl with strawberry-blond hair in a light blue sundress and flashed her his most charming smile. She responded with a small awkward twitch of the lips; then her eyes slid to Sam and she grinned widely. She cocked one eyebrow up at him invitingly.

         Sam cleared his throat, tugging self-consciously at the front of his jacket as he approached her. Dean’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the rejection but he consoled himself by snickering quietly at his brother’s discomfort.

         Sam tried not to tense up at the sound of his brother beside him as he addressed the young woman, who eyed him with a predatory gaze.

         “Hi…um…” Sam paused expectantly.

         “Shelley,” she said with a vapid giggle that she probably thought was endearing.

         “Hi, Shelley.” Sam forced his lips into a smile, swallowing uncomfortably as she reached out and walked her fingers up his chest playfully. “Sam. I’m Sam. Uh…Do you…uh…did you see what happened?”

         Seduction forgotten by the allure of gossip, she dropped her hand and Sam shrank in relief. Dean bit his lip to keep from laughing then straightened his expression and turned an exaggeratedly interested gaze on Shelley as she spoke animatedly.

         “Oh, my God! Tonight has been crazy! First this junkie got kicked out of the bar. It was really gross. He was bleeding all over from his nose. But this one couple, I guess they knew him, cause they volunteered to drive him home. But then…like a few minutes later, there’s this scream. And when we all came to see, there was that girl, the one from the couple, running up the alley all covered in blood but she just ran right past. And she shoved Frank right outta her way without stopping. That was her peeling out a minute ago.” She gave the whole speech without pausing for breath then stood as if waiting for a reward, eyeing Sam hungrily.

         The brothers’ exchanged confused looks. Sam continued to question the girl, brow knitted thoughtfully as he tried to piece together a coherent string of events “What do you mean a junkie got kicked out?”

           The girl happily started to recount the story in more detail and while Sam continued to listen, Dean stepped away and followed the small patches of blood, barely visible on the black asphalt in the dark alley. When the alleys met, he turned left and followed the trail. In the thin layer of gravel that covered the smaller side alley, the evidence of a scuffle was obvious. A larger patch of blood was steaming in the night air and the patterns among the loose pebbles were unquestionable. Oddly, another trail of blood continued and away down the alley and he followed it warily. Over top of it all, tire prints from the black sedan trailed away behind him. That car might be common as hell but he was pretty sure he had recognized it.

         Palming a syringe, he followed the second trail of blood to the mouth of the alley and across the street. The spots began to become smaller and more sporadic and disappeared completely in a patch of lawn. Dean straightened and began to walk grimly back to where he had left Sam. The muscles in his jaw rippled as his mind raced, tumbling over the facts and trying to piece them together. Every way he looked at them, things were looking worse and worse.

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Things are building speed now. From now on, updates will hopefully be uploaded each Sunday.


	3. Taking Out the Trash - Keeping Up Appearances - Trackmarks - I Hate Waiting - Through the Woods -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are continuing to spin out of control for Layla and the Winchesters. There's something nastier than vampires in this town and the revelation of the mystery hunter may bring more questions than answers. Sometimes, the hardest part of being a hunter posing as FBI is that you have to actually pose as the FBI, especially when the FBI is watching. 
> 
> Confused yet? Good. Then, you're in the same place as our characters.

 

* * * * *

     It was going to be a long night no matter how Layla looked at it. She had briefly debated about keeping the vampire alive and trying to coerce the nest’s location from him; in the end, the unlikelihood of receiving any reliable information had made her decide on the more prudent option.

    As soon as she found a secluded spot to pull off the road, she went to the trunk and reinjected the vampire with another dose of the dead man’s blood then bound his hands and feet tightly. Once she was sure that he was secure for the moment, she took off again, plotting a course in her mind to a spot she had picked on the day of her arrival. Upon finding out that the trail had gone cold and all she had were stale witnesses and a belligerent sheriff, Layla had taken part of that first afternoon to scout the area. Not only had she gotten a lay of the land and plotted the best escape routes in case things went south in a hurry, she had also located this isolated and abandoned tobacco barn.

    The rutted drive beside the barn was barely passable and she inched her car over the rough ground, using only her driving lights despite the solitude of the building amidst acres of fields. She parked out of sight of the road and stepped from her car. The rush of adrenalin had fled her system on the drive over and her knees trembled as they first took her weight.

     Layla supported herself for a moment on the car door and took a deep breath, bracing herself for the night ahead. Leaning into the car again briefly, she retrieved her machete and strode purposefully to the trunk. Using the key, she unlocked the trunk manually and hauled the vampire out. The impact with the ground jostled him awake and he began to squirm feebly as Layla dragged him into the crumbling, rotted framework of the barn. Layla growled through clenched teeth as she pulled him by the cables that bound his hands. Her back and shoulders screamed with the effort and the pain of her bruises now that the adrenalin was no longer helping to block out either.

     Layla returned to the car and retrieved another syringe and a folding, military spade. She juiced the bloodsucker one more time for good measure then picked a corner of the barn where a stack of desiccated tobacco lay. She scooped it out from the wall with the spade and began to dig methodically, the spade rising and falling in the steady rhythm of a person who is used to the task.

     Layla kept a watchful eye on the unconscious vampire as she dug but in her mind she replayed the events of the night. These vampires were out of control, literally. Vampires had been all but hunted to extinction not too long ago and those that survived had learned to lay low but these were acting like animals. They had practically fed in the open and the way that female vamp had zoned in on the feed seemed all wrong.

     Lost in her thoughts, over half an hour of digging flew past and soon Layla had a hole almost up to her hips and just over 5 feet long. With a sigh, she tossed the spade aside and picked her machete up once more. It would have to do. It had to be almost two in the morning by now and there was still cleanup to do.

     She climbed from the hole and dragged the vampire to the edge. He was completely oblivious as Layla dragged him to the edge, positioning his head over the lip of the pit. She inhaled deeply and brought the kukri down on the outward breath, putting her whole torso into the swing. The machete severed the spine and most of the neck but as strong as Layla was, the blade still stuck in the tendons and meat and it took another swing before the vampire’s head tumbled into the shallow grave. As the blood drained into the pit, Layla began to search through the dead vamp’s pockets, looking for some clue where the nest might be.

     In one back pocket, she found a small wad of cash which she pocketed humbly for her efforts. In the right hand front, she felt smooth plastic and withdrew a small zipper-sealed bag. Inside the clear plastic were a few small rocks of a red, flaky substance; on the outside, a small drawing of the head of a pit bull was printed in black. Small horns jutted from the pit bull’s forehead.

_What the fuck is that?_

     Layla rolled the bag between her fingers thoughtfully. She wasn’t about to sniff it or taste it. She had to assume it was a drug of some kind and this wasn’t the movies. Vampires on drugs? Or selling drugs? She flashed back to the needle marks on Tracey Mackle’s elbow. It was almost as if the falsified report that she had presented to Sheriff Greer and the agents had become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

_What the hell is going on in this town?_

     She tucked the baggie in the pocket of her jacket to be considered later. She grabbed the foot of the dead vampire and deposited his body unceremoniously beside his head. With a groan, she retrieved the spade and began filling the dirt back in. Once the earth was as smooth as she could make it, Layla placed the stack of withered tobacco husks back where they had been and scattered a few over the floor to disguise her movements. It wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny but hopefully she’d be long gone before it was ever discovered.

     She retrieved her tools and trudged wearily back to her car, massaging her shoulder wearily with her free hand. She drove back to her motel and a shower as fast as she dared and not risk undue attention. She even managed to get a couple hours of sleep that night, eased on her way with a few shots of bourbon from her private stash.

 

* * * * *

     The Winchesters didn’t linger at the bar long. It quickly became apparent that the muddled accounts of the bar’s patrons weren’t going to make things clearer; the brothers also knew it would be simpler all around if they weren’t there when the cops showed. Sam and Dean were not, apparently, the only ones who felt this way and they departed in the midst of a sizeable crowd which allowed their exit to go unnoticed.

     Dean drummed his thumb against the steering wheel tensely as he drove and his eyes flicked constantly to his speedometer as he struggled with his urge to speed. He had remained largely silent since rejoining Sam and returning to the Impala.

     Sam cleared his throat before speaking, “What did you see down there?”

     Dean didn’t respond right away, his free hand rubbing his chin reflectively. “I don’t know exactly. There was obviously a struggle but another trail of blood ran off the other way.” He paused for a long moment before letting the words burst from his mouth, turning to his brother, “Was that Agent Jett’s fucking car?”

     Sam shrugged. “It looked like it but lots of people drive that car.”

     Dean made a point of catching his brother’s eye, his voice suspicious, “An identical car drove by, right at that moment? I don’t believe in coincidences. Not like that.”

     Sam splayed his hands in a helpless gesture as he spoke, “So…what? Agent Jett’s a vampire?”

     Dean scoffed, “Of course not. That’s ridiculous. That is ridiculous, isn’t it, Sam?” His voice trailed off uncertainly as he looked expectantly to his brother.

     Sam stared out the window speechlessly as he rolled the thought over in his mind, trying to find a definitive argument against it. When, he finally spoke his tone was methodical: “It’s not impossible. It’s something we may have to consider but we also have to consider that it may not have been her at all; or maybe it was her, and she was just following the same pattern we were.”

     Dean cocked his head to the side, “Or maybe she’s the mystery hunter.”

     Sam shook his head, “I don’t think so. It sounds like she was at the first crime scene when the mystery hunter took down the vampire at the Korski’s.”

     “If she’s a vampire, why would she lay down a file that basically proves the existence of vampires?”

     “Because no one would believe it. She had a story that checked out, with all the right seals and documents. I’m not saying she is,” Sam paused for emphasis before repeating, “but I’m saying it’s not impossible.”

     Dean glared into the glittering darkness that stretched out before the Impala’s headlights. He shook his head as if unsure what to do with that idea. “Did you find out anything from what’s-her-name….Shelley?”

     “Nothing we didn’t already know. Junkie gets tossed. Couple leaves to take him home. There’s a scream and the girl takes off, covered in blood and gripping her neck. No one knows where the others went.”

     “Maybe into a black sedan?” Dean asked pointedly.

     Sam sighed wearily and leaned his head on is hand, elbow propped against the window. “It’s not impossible.”

 

* * * * *

     Layla’s alarm pierced her skull like an icepick. She pulled a pillow over her face and fumbled blindly for the switch. When she couldn’t find it, she settled for unplugging the damn thing from the wall with a jerk. Layla thought about her first encounter with her first nasty critter and the decision she had made then to fight rather than lay down and die. Mornings like this, she almost regretted that decision. Laying down and dying, or any laying down for that matter, definitely sounded preferable to the exhausted, aching climb to her feet that she endured now.

     Layla allowed herself time for a brief shower, more to wake herself up and ease the tension in her muscles than anything else. She clothed herself in a similar fashion to the day before: white button down shirt and navy blue pants and jacket. Today she felt justified in slipping the shoulder holster on under her jacket. She checked the magazine of her Glock 23, standard issue for FBI but also conveniently a personal favorite as it had a nice balance of accuracy, stopping power and a short reload time. It might not kill a vampire but in Layla’s experience they tended to move a lot slower when their knees bent both ways. She double-checked the safety before sliding the pistol home and adjusting her clothes over top of it. Women’s clothes were just not cut practically, she reflected as she eyed the slight bulge at her side, unavoidable in any female suit jackets she’d found so far.

     She had just settled down to the monotonous breakfast of an apple and a protein bar. She seemed to live on fucking protein bars. She opened her laptop and opened the email from Kinsey. She had just begun flipping over the meager information on Aero-Post when her phone rang.

     She glanced at the number before answering, “Agent Jett speaking.”

     “Good morning, Agent Jett. It’s Agent Gills. How are you?”

     Layla thought she detected something off about the way he asked that, the stress not quite falling on the right words. She carefully kept her voice light and business-like, “Still letting the coffee rinse the rust off the gears. Did you have a chance to look everything over?”

     “We did. And you’re definitely on to something.” Agent Gills paused on the other end of the line and Layla could hear Willis saying something in the background though she couldn’t make out his words. “We’re getting ready to head over to Aero-Post, thought you would want to meet us there.”

     “Yeah. Thanks for the heads-up. I’m leaving now,” Layla said as she rose from the table and grabbed her breakfast for the road. She’d just have to eat in the car, as always.

 

* * * * *

     Layla met up with Agents Gills and Willis in the parking lot outside Aero-Post. Behind the small office building, a chain-link fence barred passage to the airfield and warehouses. The business wasn’t supposed to open for another half an hour so Layla walked over to where the two agents were leaning against their car, both nursing cups of coffee.

     Layla had to concentrate to make her posture seem relaxed despite the throbbing in her back and shoulders. She took a sip of the coffee she’d bought on the way over and grimaced at the over-brewed, watered down flavor. She smiled in a pleasant, professionally detached way and gestured to the black Impala the two were leaning on. “I noticed that before. It’s a work of art. ’67, right?”

     She flicked her eyes back and forth between the two agents, picking up on some unspoken tension. Agent Willis in particular seemed to be regarding her warily and she fought the urge to groan with frustration.

_I thought we got over this yesterday, boys. I’m on your team. I won’t steal your show._

     Agent Willis didn’t respond for a long moment but when he did, a hint of pride was obvious as he glanced back at the car, “Sure is. You know something about cars?” Willis arched an eyebrow at her with a hint of surprise and suspicion.

     Layla bristled to be scrutinized again. She was getting damn tired of walking on eggshells and the lack of sleep was not helping. She bit down on her frustration and shrugged, “A little. Dad liked to look at ‘em. Took me to car shows when I was little. That’s where I’d expect to see this one.” Her response was generic enough not to raise suspicion but true enough that Layla felt a pang at the memory.

  
     Agent Willis took a sip of his coffee and nodded slightly, gaze still fixed warily on Layla’s face. “She’s definitely not what you’d expect but sometimes you find things like that in the darnedest places.”

     Layla thought she saw his eyes flit towards her own generic sedan and her brow started to wrinkle in confusion. Layla could feel Willis’ appraisal, like a sculptor trying persistently to chip away at the innocent and vaguely helpful mask she wore. Further conversation was interrupted, however, by the roar of an engine as a lifted, silver pick-up truck pulled quickly into the lot. It stopped in the farthest space and a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and wearing a blue button down shirt emerged. He began to hurry across the lot towards the building distractedly, taking little notice of the group.

     Agent Gills stepped away and intercepted the man as he reached the door and began sorting through his keys.

     “Excuse me, are you Mr. Korski?”

     The man looked startled but paused what he was doing, juggling his keys so he could offer a hand to the agents. “Uh…yes. Don Korski. I’m sorry. Do I know…”

     Agent Gills offered the man a friendly smile and produced his badge nonchalantly. “I’m Agent Gills. These are Agents Willis and Jett. We have a few questions about the property where the body was found.”

     Don Korski hesitated for moment then withdrew his hand and resumed unlocking the building. “Sure. Of course.” He pushed open the door and gestured them inside.

     Willis motioned Layla through ahead of him and although he flashed her a gentlemanly smile, she got the impression it was more to keep an eye on her. Tired of playing the defensive, she decided to drop back and do her own watching, letting Willis and Gills take the lead on the questioning. She didn’t really care too much what this guy Korski had going on and she was certain that the hometown businessman wasn’t a bloodsucker. The man’s small office was behind the counter and barely offered enough room for Willis and Gills so Layla gladly lingered outside the door. She stepped off to the side and observed quietly, glancing around the counter area and what she could see of the other offices and packing departments behind.

     “As my brother mentioned, gentleman, I never go out there,” Mr. Korski began as he sat at his desk. “It’s purely a transactional property.”

     “We understand,” Agent Gills said calmingly, “We were just wondering who else might have access to the house? Did you install new locks when you bought the property?” Don Korski nodded and leaned back in his chair. On the surface, he seemed relaxed but there was a tension in his frame when viewed closely. Layla had definitely noticed and she was certain the agents had as well but for the moment she was more fascinated by the way Agent Willis seemed to be fighting the urge to squirm in his seat. It looked to Layla as if he was definitely uncomfortable with her standing behind him. Agent Gills also seemed unnerved slightly by her presence there.

_That’s new and mildly amusing but probably not good. Why the change?_

     Don Korski nodded and informed them that he had indeed had the locks changed and that his brother held the only other key to the house. The agents asked a few more questions about the comings and goings at the property and Layla stepped away. Peering into the back area where stacks of boxes and bins of envelopes were stacked to the roof, she saw a rustle of movement in shadowy recesses.

     Layla stepped quickly out of the illumination of the doorway and tread silently along the racks of boxes. From between a set of large cardboard packages, she could see into the next aisle where James Korski was digging through a large box. He grabbed a handful of the box’s contents and hurried towards the rear of the warehouse. Layla heard a door slam a minute later and she walked around to the box that James had been digging through. Pulling back the panel, she peered over the top at the rows of smaller boxes containing individually wrapped syringes.

_Relapsed junkie or rookie mystery hunter?_

     Layla’s mind tried to fit that piece in with the others she had accumulated, including the baggie she had found on the vampire last night. One way or another, she had a feeling James Korski was going to cross paths with a vampire very soon.

 

* * * * *

     Layla had tagged along with the agents when they went to the morgue to examine Tracey Mackle’s body and talk with the coroner but she’d continued to stay in the background. She spoke up when it seemed fitting, asking questions that kept her character going, but she wasn’t interested in what was playing out there. The only useful bit of information came from T. Mackle’s tox screen: positive for an unknown opiate substance. Layla didn’t know what to call it either but she was pretty sure there was a sample in her motel room. The strange part was that Ms. Mackle hadn’t had a history of drug abuse. Layla knew it wouldn’t be the first time someone had managed to hide a drug habit but a carefully secretive addict didn’t line up with the dark needle marks that were obvious even in death. Other than confusing the hell out of her, the appearance of the drug in the toxicology only served to bolster the claims laid forth in her file and she played the role of the vindicated rookie with just a hint of satisfaction.

     Her mind, however, was already fixated hours ahead, planning out how to best tail James Korski and trying to figure out how to get rid of Agents Willis and Gills. When they departed the morgue, Layla made her play, saying that she had a teleconference scheduled after lunch to catch her supervisor up with events. The agents seemed to take this at face value. They informed her that they planned on interviewing some of the families again and Layla leapt on it as a reason to excuse herself for the rest of the evening. They agreed to touch base in the morning and share anything they found.

     Layla couldn’t get to her car soon enough. Not only was she tired of the feeling of being under watch, she had to get back to Aero-Post. It was almost closing time and, hopefully, James Korski would be there. She was careful not to speed until she was out of sight of the building.

     Layla parked on the street outside the small compound-like facility and scanned its parking lot. She saw James Korski’s Explorer in the lot. There was also one of the Sheriff’s cruisers parked nearby, which she had not expected.

_I thought that Greer was gonna back off, _Layla thought in frustration. Her aggravation was short-lived, however, as James Korski walked out of the building. He held the door open and let two deputies through. Layla recognized them as Meyers and Doyle, the two who had darted into the cell area when the commotion erupted earlier. Korski followed them around to the trunk of their cruiser where they retrieved a small brown package and handed it off to James.__

     For a moment, Layla was going to dismiss it all as a simple mail drop but James didn’t take the package inside; instead, he walked to his own vehicle as the deputies got in their cruiser and pulled away. When James pulled out, Layla waited for him to get a fair distance before following.

     After fifteen minutes of driving, James pulled into the driveway of an overgrown house. The brush around the building was just starting to be cleared and the driveway had recently been graded and re-graveled so Layla assumed it was another of his brother’s business ventures. She continued past, catching a glimpse of James heading inside, then pulled off onto the side of the road a quarter mile away. She could still see the driveway and she settled in to wait, either until she saw him leave or until the sun went down and she could risk sneaking closer.

     She watched curiously as another SUV and a small hatchback car came and went. They came and left separately about an hour apart and both stayed for about fifteen minutes. The relapsed junkie theory was looking better and better and Layla debated about calling off this plan but it was the only lead she had. There were too many coincidences between James and the vampires, between the drugs and the vampires. She reviewed what she knew, trying to find an angle that made sense. First, there was Tracey Mackle with track marks on her arms. There was no history of drug use but that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. Then, the dead vampire had shown up at Korski’s place; and then there was the way those vampires had fed on the addict at the bar. It was almost like the man’s blood had gotten the blonde one high. She had definitely not been on top of her game, thankfully. And lastly, there was a bag of some kind of heroin or something on a vampire. None of this was making sense but it all seemed connected and here was James at the middle of it.

     As the sun drew near to setting, she saw headlights emerge from the shaded drive and James Korski’s Explorer reappeared. He turned away from her and Layla began to follow again from a safe distance.

     Layla began to get a sinking feeling in her stomach that she may be onto something as James drove to the next town that Layla had pinpointed as a possible target. He drove to a road-house style bar and parked out front. Layla parked as far away as she could and keep an eye on the front door and his car. She cursed the luck that left her here to observe impotently. She didn’t want to risk James Korski recognizing her and maybe giving her away. She settled in for more waiting and watching; at least the comings and goings here gave her more variety. She scanned the flow of patrons for that telltale sign that one was other than he or she appeared but nothing stood out, just a lot of people stumbling around drunkenly.

     About twenty minutes later, Korski reemerged flanked by a blonde woman of medium height. Layla straightened tensely as a streetlight caught the woman’s face. That wasn’t just any woman; that was the fucking vampire from the night before. Either James Korski was a lot dirtier than she had even suspected or he was going to end up an entree.

 

* * * * *

     Dean fidgeted tensely in the driver’s seat as he groaned, “I fucking hate waiting.”

     “Everyone does, Dean.” Sam’s tone was much put-upon. It was not the first time that Dean had made that comment in the hours in which they had been tailing Agent Jett.

     “I don’t know, Sammy. Maybe you were right. She’s been driving around following this Korski guy for half a day. Maybe she really is just a Feeb with actual brains and dedication.” He craned his neck stiffly and an obvious look of longing crossed his face as he eyed the bar in the distance. “More dedication than me, that’s for sure.”

     Sam’s gaze remained fixed on the barely visible shape of Agent Jett’s car. He sounded unconvinced, “Maybe but then why’s she tailing him in secret? Why wouldn’t she tell her fellow agents?” Sam gestured between himself and Dean.

     “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe she thinks she can crack the case and be the big hero.”

     “Yeah but, Dean, remember her file? She came to town tracking a hunter. Maybe she still is.”

     “So…what? This James Korski really is the mystery hunter and she’s…what? Some kind of vampire assassin? Be real, Sam. That’s ridiculous.”

     Sam shrugged noncommittally. “All I’m saying is that we don’t know what she is. There are a lot of nasty things other than vampires that might hold a grudge with a hunter.”

     Dean grunted in acknowledgement of that fact and leaned forward, resting his arms on the top of the steering wheel. If he craned his neck, he could just make out the front entrance and James Korski’s Explorer. He wished they had parked closer but the lot across the street was as close as they could get and not risk the Impala standing out. He exhaled heavily as spoke again a short time later, “This is seriously fucked. This whole town is making my skin crawl.”

     “Yeah.” Sam sounded distracted but Dean didn’t notice as he cut him off a minute later, starting the Impala’s engine.

     “We got movement. Looks like Jimmy got himself some company. Wonder how our Agent Jett’s gonna take that?”

     “I think we’re about to find out.”

     “It’s like you read my mind.” Dean shifted the Impala into drive.

 

* * * * *

     A knot of tension began to twist between Layla’s shoulders as she followed James Korski back to the same house he had visited earlier. The last hints of twilight had just faded from the sky and she took a deep breath to steady her nerves, shoving down a surge of frustration. When she saw James turn into the driveway, Layla pulled off the road quickly. This whole damn job just kept going sideways.

     The house was situated in a large stand of trees, part of a larger plot of forest that separated two soybean fields. Even with that much cover, Layla still hid her car over a quarter mile away to be sure she wasn’t seen from the house. She stashed the vehicle as best she could with no ceremony, behind a clump of brush. She was going to have to hike in fast.

     She grabbed her machete from the back floorboards, popping the trunk with the lever by the door. Striding with hurried determination, she slid the kukri’s sheath onto her belt as she walked behind the car. Flipping open the trunk, Layla opened the canvas bag inside, which held the miscellaneous paraphernalia she used for hunting and spellcasting. She examined the four remaining syringes of dead man’s blood and pocketed two, one on each side of her jacket; then she took off at a jog through the trees towards the house where James Korski was either hunting or being hunted by a vampire.

     The recent rainfall helped to soften her footfalls and she risked a brisk pace until she reached the tree line around the small yard. Before leaving the shelter of the bank of brush and saplings, she crouched and surveyed the area. The house itself was quiet but the lights were on in a detached garage at the end of the driveway where James Korski’s Explorer was parked. A flicker of shadows betrayed motion inside and she started to step onto the lawn in that direction.

     A flash of headlights and the familiar rumble of an engine made her stop and duck back into the cover of the small trees. A scowl crinkled her features as she watched the black Impala cruise past slowly. They were close enough that she could even see Agent Gills scanning the yard from the passenger side of the vehicle.

_What the hell are they doing here?_

     Her tension was forgotten under a renewed surge of adrenalin. She waited until the car was out of view behind the house and darted across the lawn, crouching in the shadows alongside the garage. She heard the rumble of the engine cut off suddenly in the distance and she cursed under her breath. Unsnapping the peace strap with a flick of her thumb, she pulled out her Glock and inched up the wall. She tried to peer through the grubby window but it was too stained with grime to reveal more than flickers of movement. She could hear voices talking softly but couldn’t quite distinguish what they were saying. At least there wasn’t any screaming yet but she needed to figure out who was what damn quick because the FBI was going to be here in seconds.

     Crouching again she circled to the small door on the back of the garage. She gingerly tested the knob and mentally unleashed a string of curses upon generations of the Korski family as it failed to turn. Shaking her head grimly, Layla slid the machete from its sheath. She held the blade in her left hand pointed towards the ground and used that wrist to support the weight of her pistol hand. Layla took a deep breath and squared off with the door. She was just starting to step back to gain momentum when a series of small crashes and the sounds of struggling bled through the door. With a growl she surged forward and slammed a booted foot strategically alongside the doorframe. The door and lock held but not the doorjamb itself which splintered and gave way loudly.

     James Korski stood over the now much shorter body of the blonde female vampire, her startled face glaring at Layla from the far corner of the building. He stood gripping a rusting, garden-style machete that dripped blood steadily onto the concrete floor. Another splash of blood stained the front of his khaki cargo shorts and blue polo shirt. Layla could barely make out the single word he uttered between ragged breaths. “…bitch.” Then James whirled around on her, raising the machete warily.

     Layla only allowed herself a second to take in the scene. She didn’t like this, it was all too rushed. It was sloppy and the last thing she wanted was to get involved but she didn’t really have a choice now, especially not after kicking the door down with a machete in hand. It wasn’t like she could arrest the guy for killing a vampire either, or for being a sleaze-ball of some unknown quality. Technically, she couldn’t arrest the guy at all. She flicked her eyes pointedly from his raised blade and to the vampire’s corpse. “You a hunter?” she asked gruffly, the sights of her Glock still glued onto his chest.

     He glanced at the body with a startled and nervous expression, “Uh…yeah. Something like that.” Layla thought she saw his hand shaking as he lowered the machete.

_Fuck’s sake, he is green._

     “Me too,” she grunted aloud. “Now let’s go.”

     “What?”

     “FBI’s here. We have to go. Now.” Layla sheathed her own machete and started to back out of the door briskly, not waiting for him to get the idea. She pointedly did not return the pistol to its holster as she turned away.

     Behind her, she heard James start to ask, “But I thought you were…”

     Layla held up her free hand to cut him off. She paused a moment to peer around the corner of the building and scan the yard for any signs of movement from Willis, Gills or anything even less friendly. She lingered as long as she dared. When James came up behind her, Layla turned and shoved him authoritatively towards the woods and in the direction of her car. She followed silently as he ducked and bolted for the cover of the trees.

     Once they were in the shelter of the tree-line, she risked a low whisper, “Keep heading straight. My car’s about half a klick that way. Be careful. I’ll be right behind you but I  need to make sure we’re not followed.”

     James nodded and compliantly hurried away on the route she had indicated. She waited for him to get a short distance ahead as she rearranged the leaf litter to disguise their path. She retreated to her vehicle warily, stopping frequently to scan the woods for any sign or rustle of movement in the thick darkness beneath the canopy. When she was satisfied that they weren’t being followed, she approached James from the trees. Normally Layla would have laughed to see him jump slightly as she emerged from the shadows; now it just served to remind her how deep the shit was getting. She fished her keys from her pocket and unlocked the doors.

     “Get in. We need to talk.” Layla held his gaze pointedly as she slid the pistol back in its holster, leaving the peace strap hanging as an unspoken reminder that she could reconsider that decision very quickly. She walked around to the driver’s side but paused before slipping behind the wheel, pointing at the machete that James was still gripping in a white-knuckled fist. “But you better wipe that off first. You get blood in my car and you’ll wish that bitch had eaten you.”

 

* * * * *


	4. Round and Round - Interrogation - The Beast Within - Grasping at Straws - Some Truth At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd think the revelation of the mystery hunter would make things simpler, wouldn't you? But first, everyone needs to get on the same page. Hopefully, that happens before anyone else gets killed, especially Layla or the Winchesters.

* * * * *

     “Damn it!” Dean growled as he rounded the door into the garage and took in the gory scene. He lowered the machete which he had raised cautiously upon entering the building. Dean walked to where the woman’s head lay nestled in the corner, long blonde hair stained crimson where it trailed behind. He pulled a pen from inside the suit jacket he still wore; he and Sam hadn’t returned to the motel or had a chance to change since the morning. He knew what he was going to find but he pushed the dead woman’s lip back with the tip of the pen nonetheless and pressed it firmly against her gums. A retractable, shark-like tooth descended under the pressure and Dean nodded grimly to himself as he rose to his feet and stowed the pen.

     Sam joined him in the garage a moment later, slightly out of breath as he spoke hurriedly, “House is clean. No sign of Korski. You?” He didn’t sound hopeful as he took in his brother’s frustrated stance and the mess that surrounded him.

     “Other than his car and this mess? No. He’s gone.”

     Sam took a deep breath, shoving his hair back from his face with one hand as he spoke, “Jett. It has to be Agent Jett.”

     “You said she wasn’t the mystery hunter, Sam!” Dean hurried past his brother as he spoke, half-jogging as he rushed out the door and began to survey the lawn in the wan light that spread from the garage’s doorway. He spotted a darker path through the already dark grass. The settling dew had been disturbed along a route to the woods and wasn’t reflecting the moonlight like the rest of the grass.

     Sam jogged after him as Dean began to cross the yard, following the trail. “I don’t see how she can be, Dean.”

     “Which means Korski is. Which means he did this and now he’s gone. Which means Agent Jett, whatever the hell she is, took him.” He stopped at the edge of the forest and glared into its inky depths for a moment.

     Sam started to walk past him, “Then we have to find them.”

     “No.” Dean said and turned away, striding determinedly back the way they had come. “That’s the way back to where we lost sight of her car. They’re gone. We’re not gonna catch ‘em on foot.”

     Instead of taking the path through the woods by which they had arrived, they diverted down the driveway and onto the street. They began to jog down the asphalt toward the spot where the Impala was parked barely off the road. Having been worried for Korski’s life and that of what seemed to be an innocent girl, the Winchesters had not bothered with as much discretion as Agent Jett had.

     Dean continued as his brother fell into step beside him, “So what do you think we’re dealing with, Sam? If Korski’s a hunter, then a vampire couldn’t just grab him without him making some noise.”

     “We don’t know she’s a vampire, Dean. And if she is, she’s operating on a level we’ve never seen. She could have a fucking tranq gun for all we know.”

     “So those are our choices: a James Bond vampire with a hunter vendetta or….or what?”

     Sam shrugged but didn’t break stride, “Something worse? Something stronger? She obviously didn’t arrest the guy and call for backup.”

     They were approaching the Impala and they separated to their respective sides of the vehicle. Dean caught his brother’s eye over the top of the car as he swung the door open.

     “Something worse than a vampire, strong enough to get the jump on a hunter and good enough at playing human to pass for FBI? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

     Sam cocked his head expectantly, knowing the answer before he asked, “Demon?”

     “Demon.” Dean affirmed as he slid into the driver’s seat.

 

* * * * *

     Layla kicked the door of her motel room shut behind herself and James and pointed to the chair in the corner of the room.

     “Sit,” she commanded as she removed her jacket and tossed it on the bed.

     James Korski obeyed, his eyes wide and following her cautiously. She unfastened her belt long enough to remove the machete and throw it on the bed as well.

     Layla had remained silent on the drive over, alternately watching James’ from the corner of her eye and trying to figure out what to do with him. Something weirder than vampires was going on here, something to do with him. Even if he was just a sloppy rookie, she definitely didn’t have time for babysitting while she sorted out the mess in town and figured out how to work the Feds. Layla folded her arms in front of her as she turned to look the man over. James was still gripping the machete in a trembling hand, his arm hanging numbly at his side.

     She fixed her eyes on the weapon pointedly, “Eventually someone’s going to ask why you’re carrying that around. Why don’t you set it down?”

     James nodded slowly and set the blade on the table under the window. He rubbed his hands together anxiously now that they were empty.

     “So talk.” Layla ordered bluntly.

     James rubbed his palms over the dark stubble on his face and took a deep breath before speaking. “Look. I’m not really a …what you said, a hunter.”

     Layla arched one dark eyebrow dangerously but let him continue.

     He cleared his throat and went on, “I mean I don’t look for this stuff. I met one...before, a hunter. He told me a few things.”

     Layla scoffed, “You met a hunter and he just told you some things?”

     James shrugged helplessly, his hands hanging loosely between his knees as he slumped onto his elbows. “I had a run in with a demon about a year ago. That’s why I straightened up my life. I got a second chance. But then these things showed up, started ripping up people I know, so… I did what I had to.” He looked at her expectantly, waiting for some reaction to his words to reveal itself on her face.

     Layla regarded him blankly, letting the silence roll on uncomfortably. She examined his features for the slightest twitch, a guilty flick of the eyes, a nervous bead of sweat, anything that might betray some deception. She stepped forward intensely and when he still didn’t crack she let her posture relax slightly. She still didn’t trust his story completely but that wasn’t the biggest problem right now. He was obviously tied up with this whole weird drug thing but that could be bad luck on his part, or bad decision making, depending on how you looked at it. He wasn’t a vampire, or even really a hunter, but he was a loose end.

     She sighed and dropped her defensive stance, massaging the back of her neck wearily as she began to pace the small space in front of him. “Alright. We have to figure out what to tell the Feds. And no, I’m not really FBI but if you know hunters, I’m guessing you knew that already.”

     James nodded slightly, his expression relieved.

     She bit her lip pensively as she continued to pace, speaking out loud as she tried to order events into a cohesive narrative that would explain all this. She had to assume Agents Willis and Gills knew she had been at the house. “Okay. We have another dead vampire so we have another body with blood abnormalities.” Layla gestured vaguely in the air as she talked, drawing lines between invisible data points only she could see. “So we say the vamps were cult members, they lured you to these places and attacked you. I followed you to the last one and when I confronted you, you panicked and ran.”

     James’ face was terrified as she stopped her monologue and looked at him. “Hold up. What? You want me to turn myself in?”

     “You’re a hometown boy, James. With my help, you’ll be able to prove it was self-defense. Hell, you’ll have reasonable doubt too once the others are dealt with and the bodies are found, which I can also arrange.” Layla spoke calmly and she watched the man’s expression slip slowly from horror at the idea to resignation. He leaned back silently as she continued, hands on the arms of the chair. “It’s the only option that’s going to appease the agents and keep these vampires away from you. I have to bring you in. At least until I can get rid of the others. Do you know how many more there are?”

     James shrugged uncertainly, “Four, I think. Maybe three now.”

     Layla nodded. That sounded about right but she wasn’t going to rely on his information either.

     “So you’ll back my play?” Layla asked, her voice growing firm again.

     He shrugged again. “Do I have a choice?”

     Layla laughed humorlessly, “Not a better one.”

     James sighed and nodded in mute agreement. Layla granted him a small smile of approval before stepping away to the dresser. She retrieved the small, plastic baggie she’d gotten from the other vampire’s body and walked back over to James. She set the bag of flaking, red pebbles on the table next to his grimy, blood-stained machete; her finger pinned down the plastic and pointed to the silhouette of the horned pit-bull dog printed on it. She reassumed her stern, business-like tone and posture as she addressed James, standing over him.

     “And now I need you to tell me about this…and the package you got from Meyers and Doyle.”

     James’ head sagged despondently when she placed the drugs on the table. “They call it DemonDog.” He said slowly. “And I really wish you hadn’t seen that.”

     When he lifted his face to look at her, James Korski’s eyes were solid black.

 

* * * * *

     Dean thumped his hand on the steering wheel of the Impala as they sped back toward the town. “Where am I even going, Sam? How are we going to find her?”

     “Maybe someone back at the Sheriff’s Department knows where she’s been staying.” Sam responded in an unhopeful tone.

     Dean snorted a mirthless laugh, “So this demon or vampire or whatever the hell she is took Korski back to her motel room? I don’t think she’s been tracking him across state lines for sexy times.”

     Sam shrugged, his expression unamused as he patted down his pockets for his cell phone. “Do you have a better idea? If she wanted Korski dead, she would have left his body back there. She grabbed him because she got the chance or something forced her hand. So wherever she’s taking him, whatever she’s gonna do, maybe she needs to pick up supplies first.”

     Dean nodded grudgingly and ceased arguing, propping his left arm on the window and rubbing his jaw thoughtfully as Sam dialed. A voice answered a moment later and Sam quickly whispered away from the phone and to his brother. “Good. It’s Forbes.”

     Sam tilted the phone back up to his mouth, forcing a light tone into his voice. “Hey, Forbes. Agent Gills here. How are things back at the station?”

     “Pretty quiet at the moment, Agent. What can I do for you?”

     “You uh…” Sam paused for a second; he really couldn’t think of any way to ask but directly, “…you wouldn’t happen to know where Agent Jett’s staying, would you?”

     There was an awkward pause on the other end of the line and Dean shot a doubtful look to his brother when he heard the silence roll on.

     “Wouldn’t it be easier to just ask **her** , Agent Gills?” Forbes’ voice was nervously suspicious as he tried to deflect the unexpected question. The tinny, mechanical echo of his voice could be heard by Dean even over the purr of the Impala’s engine.

     “Well, Forbes, the thing is…” Sam tried to ignore the way Dean was looking at him, his eyebrows raised in mock fascination to hear how Sam was going to respond.

     Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably and continued, fixing his eyes on the road rather than his brother, “…see, the thing is that I uh…I kinda wanted to surprise her. It’s not exactly about official business, if you know what I mean.” Dean shrugged in startled approval; it wasn’t even technically a lie and he always enjoyed watching Sam squirm.

     There was another shorter pause on the line, then “Oh,” the syllable drawn out in the falling tone of dawning comprehension. Sam rolled his eyes as Dean snickered into his hand. Dean’s expression quickly slid into annoyance, however, as he heard Forbes continue: “Funny. I would’ve thought it’d be Agent Willis asking her out, what with the way they keep staring.”

     Sam shot his brother a victorious smirk as he responded, “Actually. Yeah. You’re right.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’m actually calling for Willis. I’m trying to hook ‘im up, Forbes. Let them talk outside of work, ya know? He’s completely hopeless with women.”

     “Huh,” Forbes responded simply. He sounded surprised by that.

     “So do you know where she might be staying?” Sam repeated carefully, invoking the ancient, solemn right of the bro-code.

     “Not for sure but I think I saw her carrying coffee cups from that little motel outside town. It’s about two miles down past Aero-Post.”

     Sam let the relief sound in his voice, “Thanks.”

     “Hey, Agent Gills.”

     “Yeah, Forbes?”

     “There’s a Wal-Mart on the way, open 24-hours. In case, you know, Agent Willis wants to pick up some flowers or something.”

     Sam bit down on his laughter, “Yeah. Sounds good. Thank again, Forbes.” Sam grinned at his brother as he clicked the phone shut. “You hear all that?”

     Dean’s face was pointedly unamused at his brother’s little story. “Yeah. I heard it. You better pray she’s there.”

     “Do you wanna stop at Wal-Mart in case she is?” Sam couldn’t help but erupt into laughter at his brother’s pained look.

 

* * * * *

     The Winchesters parked on the street, scanning the parking lot for Agent Jett’s now familiar black sedan.

     "There.” Sam pointed to where the car was parked near the end of the building. The brothers quickly climbed from the Impala and hurried to the trunk. “What do we even take, Dean?”

     Dean propped open the lower compartment of the trunk, revealing the stockpile of weapons. “Fuck. I don’t know. Everything? We still got those shells with iron shot?” he asked as he tucked a flask of holy water in his pocket. Sam nodded and grabbed his pump action sawed-off, digging through the boxes of shells.

     “Good. You load up on those. They’ll slow down pretty much anything. I’ll pack the salt rounds and holy water.” Dean popped a couple shells into his own shortened double-barrel and pocketed a handful more. He grabbed a machete in his free hand and pointed it to the rack of knives. “Bring something silver, just in case.”

     Dean hurried across the parking lot, heading for the last room on the bottom floor. It made sense. It was the room he would have chosen. He noticed the room next door was also unoccupied and he wondered whether Agent Jett had arranged for that as well. He stopped as he reached the walkway outside the rooms and weighed his options. He had no idea what he was facing. They were working completely on supposition and it occurred to him that not knowing what she was might mean she really was human. Shooting someone in the chest with rock salt was not the generally acceptable way of determining this.

     Dean took a deep breath and slipped the sheath of the machete under his jacket and the back of his belt; he likewise tucked the sawed-off inside the front panel, his arm cradling it casually against his side. In his free hand, he pulled out the flask of holy water and loosened the cap with his teeth as he edged towards the window. Dean glanced pointedly at his brother’s weapons as he approached and Sam stowed his out of sight as well.

     Shadows crawled across the vertical slats of the motel blinds and Dean eased up to one of the slivers of light visible between them. He frowned as he tried to make anything out through the thin beam that the blinds allowed to escape. Shifting closer to the wall Dean caught a glimpse of James Korski; he was seated with his back to the window, his head hanging dejectedly as Agent Jett stood over him threateningly. Dean adjusted his position to follow the line of her arm. He saw the blood-stained machete on the table by her hand and grimaced. He stepped quickly towards the doorway, casting a meaningful glance from it to Sam.

     Seeing Dean’s full hands, Sam stepped forward and slammed his fist on the door as Dean said quietly, “Follow my lead. Be ready for things to get messy.”

 

* * * * *

     Layla didn’t know who was more shocked by the knock at the door, her or the demon inside James Korski. The demon definitely reacted better, however, as it chuckled softly and flipped a hand towards the door. Layla found herself propelled forcefully across the narrow room and into the wall beside the doorway. She raised an arm just in time to let her head impact with her bicep rather than the drywall.

     “Aren’t you going to answer it? I think your friends want to join the party.” James said conversationally. His eyes had changed back to a mundane blue-gray and an amused smirk twisted the man’s thin lips. Another thudding knock sounded on the door, louder and more insistent. “Go on. Have a look.”

     Layla felt the force pressing her against the wall subside and she stumbled slightly as her knees took a second to realize they were again responsible for her weight. Scowling at the demon, she stepped up to the door and reluctantly peered through the peephole. Agents Willis and Gills were standing impatiently outside, expressions angry and determined.

     “C’mon, Jett! Open up! We need to have a little talk.” She heard Willis order as she looked back at the demon.

     If Layla’s heart could have beat any faster than it already was, that definitely would have done it. They must know she wasn’t FBI. They were coming to arrest her and…shit. She wasn’t going to get arrested; she was probably going to get herself and the agents killed. She had to get rid of them somehow. She didn’t have anything on hand to fight the demon in James Korski and an exorcism was not going to be quiet. On the other hand, if she couldn’t get rid of them, being arrested suddenly wasn’t sounding so bad.

     The demon still had not moved from the chair where it now reclined calmly as if watching some grand entertainment. It spoke in an admonishing tone as she reached for the doorknob, “Say anything, try anything, and I’ll skin you alive. Then, I’ll skin them. ”

     Layla nodded her understanding as she unlatched the deadbolt. She stepped close to the door as she opened it a small crack, blocking the view inside with her body. She tried to assume a surprised, nonchalant mask but she knew she was failing miserably. Her skin crawled to have that **thing** at her back, as if she could feel waves of malevolence emanating from it and oozing into her pores.

     She swallowed dryly and fought the urge to look in James’ direction as she addressed Agent Willis, who was standing closest. “Hey, Agents. Look. Now’s not a goo-“

     Agent Willis cut her off sharply, “Stow the bullshit, Jett. Let Korski go.”

     Layla froze in confusion. “…what?” She flicked her gaze between the two agents, her face perplexed. Both men were glaring at her warily; Agent Gills alternately tried to peek over her head into the room. Behind her, Layla heard the soft hissing laughter of the demon inside James.

     Layla saw Agent Willis’ left arm move slightly and a sawed-off shotgun with a worn wooden stock slid from under his jacket and into his hand. That **definitely** wasn’t Federal issue. The tumblers clicked into place as he pointed it warningly at her chest. Layla suddenly understood why she and these agents had been circling each other so warily.

     She couldn’t remember ever being so glad to see another hunter but she tried not to betray her relief as she went on. She flicked her gaze pointedly in the direction of the demon as she spoke, “Oh. Yeah. Um…James? James is here but…you can’t really talk to him at the moment...if you know what I mean.” She lowered her voice as if insinuating something sexual but her eyes screamed at them to understand the vague message encoded in that sentence.

     The pair of men may not have gotten the exact message but they definitely realized there was more going on than they had bargained for. Agent Gills made a similar movement as Willis had and another sawed-off, this one pump-action, appeared from under his jacket. He, at least, had the manners not to level it at Layla’s chest like his partner. Their stances became slightly less aggressive and they exchanged a look, obviously debating how to proceed. Agent Willis ended the silent debate a second later.

     “Fuck this,” he said simply.

     Layla opened her mouth to speak again but was interrupted in a sputter as she inhaled some of the water that Agent Willis splashed in her face.

     “What the…” she started to ask, her instincts forcing her to step back unconsciously when the liquid struck her. The door swung open slightly and the men began to edge inside. Neither man looked particularly relieved at the lack of smoke and sizzle, both still watching her cautiously.

     There was no explaining, not with the demon watching. She just had to move and hope these guys caught up on the fly. As soon as Layla’s startled and frantic mind recognized the taste of water she lunged forward.

     She positioned Agent Willis between herself and Agent Gills so the taller man couldn’t bring his shotgun to bear on her. In the same movement, she shoved Agent Willis’ shotgun to the side with her left hand and jerked the flask away from him with her right.

     The booming echo of the shotgun going off beside her in the small room was a physical force akin to being viciously mauled by a giant ball of cotton. Agent Willis’ face looked startled and vaguely apologetic as a lamp near James Korski exploded from the salt round. Willis reacted quickly, however, and reversed the momentum of the shotgun; gripping the shotgun like a riot baton, he jammed the muzzle into Layla’s ribs with both hands. In the same span of time, Layla had flung out her arm holding the flask in James’ direction; a stream of droplets crossed the small room, sizzling where they struck the seated figure. Despite the pain that exploded in her ribs, Layla’s expression was more annoyed than anything else as she doubled over. She was allowed only a few milliseconds to appreciate the shocked look on the agents’ faces as understanding bloomed.

     James rose to his feet with an enraged snarl, smoke still trickling from a few patches on his face. His eyes flashed black for a moment and a wall of force struck Layla in the back. She was thrown forward and collided with Agent Willis, taking him down with her. Agent Gills had been stepping around Willis in order to close with Layla and was subsequently spared from the sprawling, tangle of limbs that tumbled to the ground beside him. He raised his sawed-off and loosed a volley of iron buckshot into James Korski’s chest.

     James howled with rage as the buckshot forced him back. The sound turned into a shriek of pain at its crescendo when smoke began to pour from the bloody holes in his chest.

     Layla and Willis scrambled to their feet as James lashed out again, this time throwing Gills into the wall with a snarl and a flick of his wrist. Willis snatched up his shotgun from   where it had fallen and fired the remaining salt round toward James’ face. The distance allowed the salt to spread too much for concentrated damage but James still recoiled with a scream, clutching at the steaming, bloody channels the salt crystals left in his flesh.

     Layla grabbed Gills’ arm and tried to help drag the large man to his feet. Gills shoved her firmly towards the door as he rose from his knees. Willis paused long enough to make sure they were behind him and the three hunters fled through the door. Layla started to bolt toward her car and the weapons in the trunk. She skidded to a halt next to the vehicle and looked back toward the door of her motel room.

     “Shit!” She growled as she remembered that the keys to her car were in the pocket of her jacket, which was now lying on the motel’s bed. James Korski’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, one hand still held to his face, and Layla began to back away, grabbing the Glock from the shoulder holster, which she had not removed thankfully. She targeted on James’ right leg as she continued to back away. She didn’t want to fire in the street or draw attention if she didn’t have to but she didn’t want to turn her back on him again either.

     The agents had continued past her car and were already halfway across the lot. Willis glanced over his shoulder and noticed her absence.

     He stopped and waved her over, “C’mon!” He popped open the double-barrel and reloaded it quickly as she jogged towards him. James Korski had begun to stride forward out of the motel room’s door. Layla halted long enough to draw a careful bead on his hip and fire three shots in quick succession. Although the bullets weren’t made of any special metals, she knew the hollow points would shatter the joint and pelvic bone. As predicted, the demon barely seemed to notice the wounds but the mechanics of the body it was riding in failed and it crumpled onto its side.

     “He won’t be getting up for a few minutes,” Layla said smugly as she hurried off toward the Impala where Agent Gills was waiting impatiently with the doors open. Willis rushed after her and hurriedly climbed into the driver’s seat. Before the doors had closed, Willis slammed his foot to the floor and the Impala roared away with a shriek of tires.

 

* * * * *

     Layla pressed a hand against her ribs as she sprawled breathlessly in the back seat. The anxious, light-headed post-adrenalin rush was just settling in and the throbbing ache in her torso was just waking up. Layla forced herself to sit up straighter with a groan.

     “That was like the Three Stooges staging a performance of the Great Escape,” she grumbled through gritted teeth.

     She saw Willis’ green eyes scanning the road behind them for signs of pursuit in the vehicle’s rearview. He fixed his gaze on hers via the mirror a moment later, dividing his attention between her and the road.

     He gave a short, tense laugh and nodded, “Pretty much.”

     Gills swiveled on the front bench seat so he could face Layla, resting his arm across its back. He didn’t know what else to say but the obvious, “So…you’re a hunter?”

     Layla nodded. “For a while now, five years or so. You?”

     Willis spoke up first, “Whole lives. We were raised in it. My name’s Dean. This is my brother, Sam.”

     Layla hesitated, her mind was trying to find those names somewhere in her memory banks, through the haze of recent events. “Dean and Sam…Winchester?”

     “Guilty as charged,” said now-Dean in a matter-of-fact tone.

     Sam smiled and extended his hand to her, “Wish we’d just said that the first time.”

     Layla returned the smile but flicked her eyes between the two brothers furtively. If some of the things she’d heard about these brothers were true, it could make them a whole new and excitingly dangerous complication down the road. She dragged herself out of her thoughts and took now-Sam’s hand, shaking it firmly as she forced another smile over the alarm bells that were prickling the hairs on the back of her neck.

     “Uh…yeah. That definitely would have saved time. I’m Layla…”

     Dean caught her eye in the rearview again, “Layla, like the uh…?”

     “Yeah. Like the Clapton song. Dad was a fan.”

     “Nothing wrong with a little bit of Slowhand.” Layla was surprised to hear Clapton’s nickname come from Dean’s mouth. Somehow, it just didn’t seem to mesh with what she had seen of him so far. It occurred to Layla then that she might not really know either of these men at all, though their reactions at the motel proved they were experienced and quick on their feet. “Got a last name, Layla?”

     “Parker.”

     “Layla Parker?” Dean paused as he ruminated on the name. “…you took out that Black Dog in Tucson, right?”

     “It turned out to be a skinwalker but yeah. That one was a clusterfuck too. I hate bad intel.”

     She let her head fall back wearily against the seat as Dean addressed her again, “So you’ve heard of us too, huh?” His tone was light, almost proud, but she could feel him gauging her reaction carefully.

     “Just rumors from people who heard rumors. You guys really run into a Rakshasa?”

     Dean chuckled at the memory and shot an amused glance at his brother, “Yup. It was traveling with a circus, passing off as a clown.”

     Sam grimaced, obviously not as amused by that story.

     “Huh.” Layla grunted in surprise. “I always wanted to see one for some reason…clowns are creepy though.”

     Sam shot his brother an ‘I told you so’ look.

     Dean ignored Sam’s moment of triumph, speaking again to Layla. “So what the hell happened to ‘I don’t believe in vampires, Sheriff’?” he mimicked her deadpan tone from before.

     Layla shrugged and instantly regretted it when a fresh burst of pain erupted in her side. She was starting to think something was definitely cracked in there.

     “I don’t,” she said simply.

     “Don’t what?”

     “I don’t believe in vampires.”

     Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion as he cut in, “But you hunt them?”

     “All the more reason not to believe in ‘em. I know they’re real so they don’t need the extra attention. I don’t have to believe in something for it to rip out my throat so why bother? How many hunters, do you think, have died thinking: ‘But I don’t believe in…dot dot dot’?”

     Sam and Dean nodded grudgingly and chuckled in unison at her response.

     Layla’s eyes were drawn out the window as a familiar landmark flashed by.

     “Turn up here. We need to go back to Korski’s Explorer.”

     “What? Why?”

     Layla could see Dean’s confused expression in the mirror.

     “I have a package waiting for me.”

     Sam’s phone rang a moment later as Dean turned off in the direction Layla had indicated. Checking the number, Sam flashed a warning glance at Dean and Layla before      answering in a professional tone, “Agent Gills here.”

     Dean and Layla could also hear the worried voice on the phone, “Are y’all okay, Agent?”

     “Yeah, Forbes. Why? What’s going on?” Sam tried not to let his voice betray the fact he had a good idea why the deputy would be calling.

     “We just had a bunch of reports from that motel you were asking about, three or four calls for shots fired and people screaming. Sheriff’s on his way there and the rest of the station hauled ass out of here.”

     “We’re fine, Forbes. Agent Jett’s with us. We picked her up a while ago and we’re all headed out for a drink.” Sam shrugged helplessly at his brother. The story he had unwound earlier had him tangled up now.

     Forbes’ relief was obvious and surprisingly genuine. “Probably nothing to do with y’all then. I’ll let you know if there’s anything you need to know but I uh….I won’t try real hard ‘til tomorrow. Tell Agent Willis I said ‘Good luck,’” Forbes said good-naturedly.

     A thought occurred to Sam and he spoke quickly before the line clicked off, “Hey, Forbes. You know that Agents…they aren’t really supposed to…”

     Forbes cut him off with a sly chuckle, “Don’t you worry, Agent. What those kids get up to outside work is nobody’s business but theirs.”

     “Thanks, man. Willis really owes you one.” They all could hear Forbes laugh again as he hung up.

     Sam peered at Dean out of the corner of his eye, waiting for his reaction.

     Dean smirked uncomfortably and flipped a hand between himself and Layla as he caught the reflection of her eyes in the rearview again. “Apparently, we’re dating now.”

     Layla surprised herself with how hard she suddenly laughed at the situation. Dean’s injured expression, when he interpreted her laughter as being directed at the idea of dating him, only made her laugh harder. Each laugh felt like a punch to the chest, however, and she quickly let them taper off with a groan.

     “You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Agent Willis,” Layla inflected his pseudonym playfully. “A demon, a daring rescue…attempted rescue of the demon, I might add… and possibly broken ribs. I don’t see how you’re gonna top a first date like this.”

     Dean grimaced apologetically at the mention of her ribs. He rubbed his free hand across the back of his neck uneasily, “Sorry about that.”

     “Not the first, won’t be the last. I would’ve done the same thing.”

     Layla noticed that Sam had leaned back against the door of the Impala and was watching their exchange silently with a small, bemused smirk. She quickly wiped the grin from her face and stared fixedly out the window for the rest of the drive.

 

* * * * *

     Layla tried the handle of the Explorer and found it locked. Cupping her hands to the glass to block the glare on the window, she peered inside and saw the package lying on the passenger floor board.

     “It’s in there,” she said over her shoulder to the brothers as she flipped open the small set of lock picks she was carrying. She had just selected a couple of picks when the crash of breaking glass startled her. She looked up and saw Dean standing next to a now smashed window, holding a crowbar and wearing an innocent grin. He shrugged wordlessly and reached inside, unlocking the front door and swinging it open. He ushered Layla inside with a wave of the crowbar.

     Layla rolled her eyes and crawled across the seat to grab the package from the floor, careful of the shards of broken glass. One end of the small cardboard package was open now and it was a good bit lighter than she had been expecting. As she backed out of the vehicle and turned towards the brothers, she saw Sam giving his brother a withering stare; Dean was smiling guilelessly, hands held out to his sides. She thought about the position she had just been in as she leaned across the Explorer’s seats and joined Sam in the withering stare club. She could see Dean visibly choke down a burst of laughter and try to settle his face into a business-like expression as he pointed to the package.

     “So what’s in there?”

     Layla glared at him a moment longer, “Not sure yet. Let’s talk on the way. Korski’s probably going to send someone to clean up after him any minute.” She began to walk past them towards the Impala. Sam and Dean exchanged puzzled looks and walked after her.

     “What do you mean to clean up after him?” Dean said as he opened the driver’s door and sank behind the wheel.

     Layla closed the back door and began to peel back the cardboard of the package warily. A glimpse of dull red inside the box made her feel vindicated, annoyed and confused at the same time. She answered Dean absently, “The body in there. It’s Korski’s handiwork.”

     As the engine rumbled to life, Sam pivoted to look at her, “Wait. Korski killed that vampire? We thought you were the mystery hunter.”

     Layla didn’t say anything for a long moment as she pulled out a handful of the small plastic baggies filled with the familiar, greasy red pebbles. She snapped back into the conversation a second later, blinking as her mind replayed what her ears had heard. She shook her head in response to Sam’s question.

     “I may be a hunter but I didn’t kill that one. Though I’d like to think I loosened her head a little when I stuck her in the neck last night. “

     Dean nodded to himself as he started to line up events, “Outside that bar…the couple and the junkie, right?” He met her eyes in the rearview and when she nodded, he addressed Sam. “So that was the blonde from the bar. She was the vampire, not a vic.”

     Sam nodded his understanding; he’d already put the pieces together. “I’m guessing Korski also killed the one at his brother’s house?” he asked Layla.

     Layla shrugged, “I guess so, if you guys didn’t. That blonde bitch was one of two, that couple.” Layla grimaced at the memory of the scuffle, the tension in her back leaking into her voice, “I took out the other one but I doubt anyone will find him for a while.”

     “So why the hell is a demon hunting vampires?” Dean asked in a perplexed tone.

     Layla shrugged again but held up a small handful of the baggies, “I don’t know for sure but it has something to do with this. James is distributing it.” She thought about how much empty space was now in the package and the two vehicles whose passengers had met with James Korski at the house earlier. _So who the hell was that? Are they local dirt-bags or something with real teeth?_

     Sam reached out and took one of the bags. He held it up and examined it for a moment before handing it to Dean. Dean crinkled his nose at the bag in disgust, “Unknown opiate substance, I’m guessing?”

     Sam and Layla replied in unison, “Most likely.” They glanced at each other in surprise and Sam laughed; Layla allowed herself a smile. Sam seemed like such a nice guy, not at all like the monster that some of the rumors made him out to be: something part demon, not even human, a killing machine, super soldier in a coming war…the list went on. And Dean was charming, if a little arrogant. He certainly didn’t seem like the wrathful fatalist who would gladly run over puppies for his demon-brother, as those same rumors portrayed. _That doesn’t mean that none of those things were true,_ she reminded herself. _After all, they had played FBI well enough._

     “That stuff looks like it was mixed with blood or something,” Sam observed as a flash of headlights glistened off the tiny rocks Dean was holding up to the light. “You have any idea what it is? What it does?”

     “Not really. James said it was called DemonDog. Ever heard of it?”

     Both the Winchesters shook their heads and Dean tossed the baggie back to Layla for her to stuff back into the package with the others.

     “This stuff is the key to this whole mess,” Layla continued. “I get the feeling James wasn’t going to flash the black eyes until I showed him that. It was like he was trying to see how much I knew and what I planned on doing with it.” She hesitated as a thought in the back of her mind, which she had been ignoring up to this point, raised its head and roared for attention. “I wouldn’t have known, otherwise. Hell, he could have killed me any time. I wasn’t prepared, didn’t have the right weapons.” She realized she was rambling and took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

     Layla saw the brothers exchange another one of their coded looks but she could guess at its meaning. She made herself forget how long she had sat beside that thing, that she had had a demon riding shotgun in her car and had thought herself in control. Her stomach churned at the thought of her proximity to that cancer and how easily things could have turned out differently. She saw Dean start to say something but Layla didn’t give him the chance.

     Trying to ignore the empathetic look that was visible in the rearview, Layla bit down on her unease and continued in a matter of fact tone: “This DemonDog stuff….I’m guessing the ‘Dog’ part is a reference to heroin, like ‘dogfood.’ So you factor in the Demon part of the name and the fact that James Korski, a demon, is pushing it and we’re looking at some seriously unholy shit. Sheriff Greer said this town was going to hell. Maybe he was being literal.”

     The Impala’s purring rumble filled the long, thoughtful silence that stretched out on the tail of her words. Finally, Dean broke through the hush, “We should get back to our motel. We’ve got demons, vampires and some freaky demonic drugs to deal with. We need to lay out everything we know and plan our next step.”

     Sam nodded mutely. Layla agreed as well, tucking herself into the corner of the seat and the door to rest for the short drive across town. She let her eyes drift closed but was careful not to let sleep take her, intent on hearing anything that might be said if they thought she was sleeping. The only noise, however, was the gently pulsing thunder of the Impala’s engine.

* * * * *


	5. A Rude Awakening - Further Interruptions - Call of Duty - Under Arrest - With A Little Help From My Friends -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layla and the Winchesters are starting to put together a very disturbing picture of what's going on in this town but there are a lot of people (and other things) who don't want that to happen.

* * * * *

     Layla’s mind began to claw away its shroud of slumber as the Impala came to a stop and settled back into park. She heard a car door slam and she went straight from sleep to heart-pounding terror, skipping all stops in between. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, didn’t remember doing it, and her overstressed and sleep deprived brain was taking its sweet time about remembering how she got here. She jolted upright and instantly doubled over in pain.

     “Hey. Whoa. Slow down.” A soothing voice drew her attention to the front seat and she saw Agent Willis….no, that wasn’t right. It was Dean now, Dean fucking Winchester, regarding her with a barely perceptible expression of worry and caution. Sam was outside the car and she could hear him digging in the trunk. Layla took in her surroundings and slowly her heart ceased its marathon sprint as her mind filtered through the recent events.

     Layla shoved her hair out of her face roughly, tucking the dark, shoulder-length strands behind her ear. She cleared her throat but her voice still came out sounding flustered and groggy: “Sorry. Been some long days. I’m fine. Sorry.”

     She slid across the seat and started to reach for the door handle. Dean caught her upper arm gently, propping his knee on the front seat so he could turn to face her. Layla froze like a statue as his emerald eyes transfixed her.

     “You good? Seriously?” he asked; his voice had an urging quality as if willing her to confide in him.

     A chill ran down Layla’s spine and she dragged her eyes from his, tracking them down to where his hand gripped her arm. She spoke in a carefully blank tone, “I’m good. Seriously.”

     Dean followed her gaze and released his grip reticently. He rolled his neck and suddenly his cocky mask was back in place, “Good. We need you at a hundred percent if we’re gonna ride out this shit-storm.” He pulled the keys from the ignition and climbed quickly out of the car. Layla retrieved Korski’s package from the floorboards and followed more slowly, straightening stiffly once free of the vehicle’s confines.

     By the time she was inside, Sam had already salted the windows and Dean was sorting through a duffel of miscellaneous weapons and supplies on the table. Sam closed the door behind her and drew a line of salt across the entrance. Layla sank gingerly onto the edge of the nearest bed, forcing herself to sit up straight and not wince with every movement. She tossed the package onto the table and watched Dean check the weapons he pulled from the bag.

     “We have another complication, a human one.” Layla offered hesitantly, as if the problem wouldn’t exist until she gave voice to it. When both men turned to her expectantly, she continued, “A couple of the deputies, Doyle and Meyers…they dropped off that package to Korski so unless we’re looking at more demons, we also just made enemies of some really crooked cops. Either way…”

     “…that is really, really bad.” Sam finished for her as she trailed off.

     Dean grunted in acknowledgement as he pocketed the last few shells of iron buckshot; he had already filled the opposite pocket with salt rounds.

     “Either way we got people on the force gunning for us.”

     Layla sighed and rubbed a weary hand down her face, “I think we can safely assume all our covers are blown…or will be soon.”

     Dean nodded and held out a sheathed machete to her, flipping it over with a flourish to extend it hilt-first. “Who do we take down first?”

     Layla took the blade with a nod of gratitude. “Whoever we can find, I guess. I don’t have any real leads on this nest other than those drugs and James Korski. You?”

     Both Winchesters shook their heads, frowning. Dean slumped into the chair next to the table and across from Layla. Sam sat on the edge of the long, low dresser against the wall, cautiously positioning himself close to the door, his shotgun held in his lap. He set the large can of salt beside him as Layla proceeded.

     “So the only thing we can probably find is the demon in James Korski…who is probably with his friends, the dirty cops, by now.” Layla sighed again and lowered her head wearily as she tried to dig through what she knew, find some pattern she had missed. She gave in to the urge to press a hand to her torso gingerly as she muttered, “I need a drink.”

     She looked up when she heard a quiet sloshing sound and saw Dean extending a flask to her.

     “I was thinking something a little stronger than holy water, thanks.”

     Dean snorted and took a pull from the flask, sucking his teeth afterwards. “Yeah. So was I.” He proffered the flask again and Layla took it with a small, grateful smile. The corner of his mouth twitched up in response but he shook it off quickly and pursued the previous conversation, “I hate to say it but if these guys come for us, especially with a demon in their posse, we’re not gonna have the luxury of trying to put them down peacefully.”

     Layla took a long draw from the flask before responding. Her voice was surprisingly venomous as she spoke and both brothers’ eyes widened slightly, “I’ve put down a slew of werewolves more innocent than those pieces of shit. I don’t like killing humans but I won’t lose sleep over those two.”

     Dean shrugged and held up a hand pacifyingly, “Ok. Just making sure we’re on the same page here.”

     “Only as a last resort though,” Sam protested automatically, knowing the likelihood of a peaceful outcome was slim to nil.

     Layla and Dean cast grim glances to one another but nodded in grudging acquiescence. Layla took another drink before handing the flask back to Dean. It wasn’t much but she could feel the whiskey sending warm, relaxing tendrils out from her otherwise empty stomach. The aches and pains didn’t go away but they were suddenly much less insistent. As her nerves settled slightly, the only path forward emerged from the fog.

     “We’re gonna have to lay an ambush. It’s our only option against both Korski and the vamps but luckily, we have bait.” Layla plowed ahead, knowing if she didn’t make her case quickly the brothers were more likely to protest the idea. “The demon in Korski will come for me, probably all of us, because of that,” Layla gestured to the bags of DemonDog. She sighed heavily again, her tone exasperated as she went on, “And I have to assume that blonde bitch took my scent back to the nest. So the vampires will come for me too.”

     “No.” The brothers’ responses, tone and timing were identical.

     Layla shook her head in annoyance but dropped the point for the moment. She knew they’d come back around to it when all other options were exhausted and as far as she could see, they didn’t have any other options.

     Sam stood and nodded meaningfully towards the back of the room, “Dean, we need to talk…”

     Dean masked his expression carefully as the pair stepped away but Layla thought she saw a hint of weary frustration, the look of someone about to repeat an old battle.

     “We do have another option, Dean,” Sam whispered almost silently. “I could call Ruby, have her bring the knife.”

     “No, Sam!” Dean hissed fiercely. “We do not have time for this fight again and we already have enough demons on our fucking hands. We do not need another black eyed bitch to worry about!”

     “This thing’s spinning out of control fast, Dean. I’m not seeing another option unless you want to offer Layla up as bait.”

     Dean angled his back to block Layla’s view as he glared sternly at his brother, “We will find another option, Sam. No one’s going to be bait.”

     Sam opened his mouth to protest again when a mechanical tone from his pocket cut off the conversation. He switched the shotgun to his other hand and retrieved his phone. A local number displayed on the caller ID but he didn’t recognize it. Sam gritted his teeth and shot his brother a look promising an unfinished fight but he modulated his voice carefully as he answered the phone, “Gills here.”

     Even from across the room where she had been unable to hear the brother’s tense whispers, Layla could clearly make out the sound of Forbes’ breathless, nervous voice, “Agent, it’s Deputy Forbes! Where are you?”

     The three hunters exchanged confused, worried looks. Layla rose from her seat on the bed and took a few steps closer, cocking her head to listen.

     Sam skirted the question for the moment, answering with his own, “Slow down, Forbes. What’s going on?”

     There was a brief silence on the line and it was easy to imagine the anxious man calming himself before he spoke, “It’s Agent Jett. The Sheriff is coming for her.”

     “Where’s he headed?” Sam asked warily.

     “Your motel. He said he knew she wasn’t FBI, that she shot someone at her motel…”

     “Whoa. Agent Jett didn’t shoot anyone. She’s been with us. How did the sheriff know she was with us, Forbes?” Sam’s voice was demanding, his expression angry. De an looked even angrier.

     “Meyers and Doyle, sir. They came in and told him. I don’t know how they knew…” Forbes’ tone was rushed as if these questions were derailing him from a point he was trying to reach. Layla caught the brother’ gazes and mouthed a single word, “Korski,” to which they both nodded, frowning.

     There was a booming knock at the door and the three spun toward it in a synchronized motion. “Agent Gills! Agent Willis!” Sheriff Greer’s voice boomed through the door angrily.

     Dean rolled his eyes in irritated disbelief as he whispered tersely, “What the hell kind of heads up is that?”

     Layla glanced around the room quickly. If the Sheriff knew she was here then there wasn’t really any point in hiding. If Sam and Dean’s covers were still intact it might be better to let Greer take her in, at least the other two would be free to clear up the chaos. She looked quickly to Sam and held a finger to her lips, waving him towards the bathroom. Sam nodded his understanding and stepped into the bathroom to finish his conversation with Forbes, shotgun still in hand. A moment later, they both could hear the loud buzz of the shoddy ceiling fan and the rush of the shower running. Layla stepped to the table and began stashing away the weapons and the package of DemonDog in the duffel bag. Dean went to the door and glanced through the peephole, then held up a single finger to Layla as he mouthed Greer’s name.

     The Sheriff knocked again much louder and Layla quickly shoved the duffel bag under the edge of the bed. Once it was out of sight, she sat in the chair by the bed which Dean had vacated and tried to assume a relaxed passive pose as she nodded at him to open the door. Dean allowed a briefly apologetic look to cross his face as he scooped the salt away from the door with the toe of his shoe and pulled it open. He stepped back from the door, feigning confusion as the heavy man barged in.

     “Sheriff Greer, what ca-…” he began in a polite but perturbed voice.

     “Where’s Gills?” Greer demanded overtop of his question.

     Dean gestured to the bathroom where the sound of the shower was still clearly audible, steam rolling from beneath the door.

     Greer nodded and turned to face Layla, his lip curled derisively. “Hands behind your back. You’re under arrest, Agent,” Greer drug out the last word in a condescending sneer.

     Dean slipped around Greer and interposed himself, holding his hands up in a pacifying motion. “Let’s just slow down, Sheriff. What’s going on?”

     Sheriff Greer didn’t move his gaze from Layla’s face, hungry for some expression of fear or discomfort as he spoke, “That uppity bitch is going to jail for impersonating a Federal agent and probably for murder.” Greer reached to his belt and retrieved his handcuffs.

* * * * *

     “Forbes, start over. What happened?” Sam carefully pitched his voice loud enough to be heard over the noise of the shower but low enough not to be audible outside the room. He was glad Forbes had called, extremely glad, but he couldn’t understand why the deputy would warn them either. Forbes was a nice guy, yeah, but nice guys don’t usually tip off felons, especially when they work for the Sheriff. Sam forced himself to ignore the sounds of tense conversation from outside the door and focus on what Forbes was saying.

     “I was working the desk, Agent, when Sheriff came back from the motel. He was really mad and I…I thought it was strange ‘cause he told me to go home. He said he’d cover the desk till Meyers and Doyle got back but it’s not their shift and they never work late. I…I wasn’t gonna argue though so I went to the locker room to get my stuff, only I forgot my keys at the desk so I went back out a minute later. That’s when Meyers and Doyle came in, cursing a blue streak. They went into the sheriff’s office with him and I…uh…”

     Sam gritted his teeth but forced his voice to sound calm, “Go on. What then?”

     “Well…maybe I kind of…lingered by the door to listen…” Forbes’ voice was almost a whisper as if admitting a horribly grievous sin.

     “It’s okay, Forbes. What did you hear?”

     “I couldn’t hear all of it. There was a lot of talk about Agent Jett not being an agent and her shooting someone….but I was listening to the radio. No one called in injuries or D.O.A.s. Then they said a bunch of other names too and…they said a bunch of stuff that didn’t make no sense. Said she was a hunter, though I don’t know what that has to do with anything. I mean, I go out most deer seasons…but when Meyers and Doyle said they was gonna arrest her, Sheriff said he didn’t want her arrested. He said he’d take care of it ‘cause….’cause he wanted her dead…and anyone who tried to stop him.”

     Sam swallowed drily. He glanced toward the door where the sound of voices was raising to the pitch of an argument. If what Forbes said was true, then a match was about to hit a powder keg out there.

     “Forbes. Are you positive that’s what you heard?”

     “Yes, sir. That’s why I called as soon as I could sneak out without them hearing. I’m on my way over now.”

     “That’s not a good idea. This is way outside your job description.”

     “No, sir. I know that someone is gonna try to kill y’all. I know that the other deputies aren’t going to do anything about it. The way I see it this is exactly my job description.”

     Sam looked at the phone in surprise as Forbes hung up sharply.

* * * * *

     “This is the last time, I’m gonna tell you, Agent Willis. Move aside!” Sheriff Greer’s patience snapped and he bellowed into Dean’s face.

     The younger man didn’t flinch, levelling an icy stare at the sheriff as he responded in an equally cool tone, “Good. Then I won’t have to repeat myself. If she’s under arrest for impersonating a Federal agent, then it’s a Federal matter and we will handle it.”

     The two men battled wills silently for a long interval then Sheriff Greer broke off the staring match with a knowing chuckle. He took a step back and wagged a finger in Dean’s face as he spoke, “I see what this is about,” the sheriff paused to crane his neck over Dean’s shoulder and leer at Layla suggestively before he went on, “This isn’t about jurisdiction. This is just about dick.”

     Layla saw Dean’s shoulders tense and his hands curl into fists. She rose quickly to her feet and put a hand on his arm warningly. “Agent Willis, I should go. At least until we can get this straightened out.”

     If Sheriff Greer still believed Dean’s cover, Layla couldn’t let him blow it. And if getting arrested meant that he and Sam could stop more people from being killed, she’d just have to take her lumps. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been in custody; granted the idea of being in Greer’s custody made her stomach churn uncomfortably.

     Dean shot a frustrated look over his shoulder at Layla, urging her not to follow through, but when she began to step forward nonetheless, he moved aside in tentative compliance. Greer grinned triumphantly and grabbed Layla’s arm as soon as she was in reach. She didn’t resist as he jerked her forward and twisted the arm up behind her back. He grabbed her other arm as well but continued to twist the first painfully. Dean noticed this and stepped forward to intervene but Layla cut him off with an admonishing glare, gritting her teeth as Greer snapped the cuff on her wrist and finally released the tension.

     The door to the bathroom burst open and Sam emerged, shotgun leveled at Sheriff Greer.

     “Let her go.”

     Greer hesitated then let the other cuff fall loose, dangling from the one already fixed on Layla’s wrist. He latched onto her left arm with surprising strength and wrenched it upward as he pulled her close, positioning her between himself and Sam. Layla groaned through gritted teeth but let herself be pulled backwards. She could feel the tendons in her elbow stretching painfully, another few inches and she knew it would be dislocated.

     Dean, blocked from his brother by the two beds, held out his hands in a calming motion. Layla was the first to speak, however, trying not to let her discomfort reveal itself in her voice, “Gills. It’s okay. We’ll figu-…”

     “It’s not okay,” Sam cut her off sharply. “He’s not here to arrest you. He’s here to kill you. Right, Sheriff?”

     Greer laughed mirthlessly and stepped back towards the door which still hung open behind him. He kept Layla between himself and the brothers. When Dean began to step forward, Greer twisted her arm again, stopping just shy of tearing the joint. He only ceased when the motion elicited a shocked cry of pain. He held her arm there firmly, hovering in that spot of agony and Layla bit down on the cry, growling between gritted teeth as she contorted her back in an effort to relieve the pressure.

     “Let her go,” Dean repeated his brother’s words, his tone low and severe.

     Greer barked a laugh, “Or what, Agents? Are you really going to shoot the town Sheriff to save some whore from a felony charge? ‘Cause that’s what you’ll be doing. That’s what everyone will see.” He began to edge slowly towards the door. He held Layla’s other arm behind her more loosely and guided her in front of him as he backed away. He carefully kept Layla between himself and the brothers, controlling her with the excruciating tension on her elbow. “Now if she decides to try and escape custody…well, whatever happens then has nothing to do with you, right, boys?”

     Dean ignored the question. “You can’t hold her like that forever. Let her go now or when you do, I will end you.” He stood utterly still, his frame relaxed despite the tension in his voice. Even through the pain, Layla noticed that although Dean’s hands were empty, he sounded much more dangerous than Sam.

     Greer sighed melodramatically. “Fine. If that’s how you want to play it, you win.” The brothers exchanged a wary glance as Greer spoke but made no move to release Layla. She stood on her toes, back arched painfully to avoid dislocating her own arm and her eyes fixed determinedly into the distance in an effort to block out the throbbing in her elbow. “I was gonna let you two go, ya know. Killing you is going to bring a lot more attention than we wanted but I told ‘em: Winchesters are just too much fucking trouble.”

     The brothers stood in mute shock as Greer spoke their names, minds racing to figure out how he knew them. His tone and mannerisms had changed completely, the rustic drawl fading from his voice.

     “Fuck it. I’m sick of playing this walking redneck cliché anyway. Thanks for opening the door by the way. I really wasn’t sure how I was going to get past that salt.” Greer kept the tension on Layla’s elbow but waved the other hand casually in a sweep of the room. His eyes flashed completely black as a wave of force propelled both brothers into the wall in their respective corners. They struggled uselessly to move as the demon in Greer held them in place by will alone.

     “How long have you been in there?” growled Dean.

     Greer laughed and stepped back into the room, shoving Layla roughly in front of him. He let go of her loose arm and drew the pistol from his belt, resting it almost lovingly against Layla’s temple.

     “Oh. It’s going on three months now. But I wouldn’t feel too bad about Sheriff Greer if I was you.” He paused dramatically and skewed his eyes as if looking at something only he could see. He pointed the pistol at his own temple and chortled, “It is really dark in here. It almost makes me uncomfortable.”

     With a sharp forward thrust of her twisted arm and a knee dug sharply into her hamstring, Greer forced Layla to kneel. Once she was on her knees, he again twisted her left arm upwards until she couldn’t help but let a muffled cry escape her clenched jaws. He held her in that position as he leaned his face down beside her, “He even likes that little noise you’re making. You’re lucky I don’t have time for the games he wants to play.”

     Greer let go of her arm and straightened, placing the muzzle of his pistol against the back of her skull.

     “Don’t!” Sam yelled. Dean snarled wordlessly and tried futilely to push away from the wall.

     Layla tensed and cautiously raised her hands beside her head, preparing to whirl around and trying to ignore the nerves screaming in her left elbow. If she timed it right, she could shove the pistol to the left as she spun right, but a nervous command from outside distracted them all.

     “Drop the weapon, Sheriff!”

     Sam and Dean could just make out Forbes through the doorway. He stood in a textbook stance, both hands supporting the gun leveled at Greer’s back.

     “I thought I told you to go home, Forbes. This ain’t your business.”

     “Yes, it is, Sheriff. Now drop your gun. I won’t tell you again.”

     Greer hesitated and glanced over his shoulder. He looked Forbes over condescendingly, saw the way the tip of the gun was shaking in his hands and laughed nastily. “You don’t have the balls,” he said simply and turned back to Layla, drawing the hammer back with a click.

     Layla wasn’t sure which struck her first: the crack of the two gunshots or the spray of warm blood that splashed over her. She didn’t hesitate as she felt the gun fall away from the back of her head. She threw herself to the side and towards the dresser against the wall.

     Greer barely staggered as the bullets struck him in the back, the second continuing through his torso and shattering the blocky television set in a shower of blood and glass . The jet black spheres of his true visage were visible again he spun to face Forbes. He gestured with the tip of the gun and Forbes was sent flying back onto the hood of his cruiser. Distracted with the deputy, Greer’s hold on the Winchesters dissolved and they both slumped to the floor, staggering as their weight returned. Greer’s eyes stayed solid black for the interlude as he raised his pistol, firing two shots of his own back towards where Forbes as sliding down the cruiser onto his knees.

     “No!” Layla screamed and kicked out as soon as she saw Greer turn, jamming her heel towards the side of his left knee with bone-crushing force. Although the blow connected and Greer’s leg gave way with a crunch, it was not in time to halt the shots and he barely seemed to notice. Although Layla couldn’t see through the door, she heard the solid ‘whump’ of impact, an impact not with steel, or glass, or concrete.

     Greer began to turn back towards the hunters, his leg twisting grotesquely as it took his weight. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth and joined the growing patch on the breast of his shirt. A barrage of iron buckshot from Sam’s sawed-off caught him in the chest and he began to stumble back with a shriek, dropping his pistol as he staggered back towards the open doorway.

     Layla quickly grabbed the can of salt from the dresser and lunged past Greer. She threw her shoulder into the door and slid down it as it slammed closed, already dumping salt before the latch even clicked home.

     Another roar of a shotgun blast filled the room and she saw Dean standing with his double-barrel leveled at Greer as well. One side of the demon’s face was gone, stripped down to sizzling bone by the salt and a good portion of it decorated the drywall beside him.

     In the back corner of the room, she could hear Sam begin to chant the exorcism rite, “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis Satanica potestas…”

     The demon inside Greer howled, smoke curling steadily from his chest and mangled face. He lashed out an arm in Sam’s direction. Sam’s chant was cut off as he was hurled across the width of the room and into the wall where he crumpled breathlessly onto his side.

     Layla, kneeling against the door, injured arm cradled loosely in her lap, continued from where Sam had been interrupted. Her voice sounded of barely contained rage as she spat the words viciously, “Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…” A spasm contorted Greer’s frame and he whirled on Layla. He seemed to be losing control of his meat suit and he lurched unsteadily toward her as she went on, “Ergo, Draco Maledicte ut ecclesiam tuam secura…” Layla hesitated as Dean’s sawed-off roared again, shredding the cloth and skin along Greer’s neck and shoulder. Dean scrabbled for the shells in his pocket as he snapped open the double-barrel shotgun. Sam was just collecting his own sawed-off unsteadily, a thin trickle of blood running from the corner of his brow.

     Layla tried to scoot farther back into the corner as Greer’s bloody, cursing countenance loomed over her. A steady wind began to whip around the room as she continued breathlessly, shouting to be heard over the din, “Tibi facias libertate servire…”

     Greer voiced an inhuman screech as his body contorted but he regained a semblance of control and lashed a fist out at Layla with a bestial snarl. Layla raised her right arm in time to deflect a portion of the blow and it glanced off her cheek but cut off the final phrase that would have sent the demon in Greer back to the pit.

     Layla saw Dean step forward and fire one more salt round into the demon’s back to unsteady it. As soon as the echo of the shot faded, Dean shouted the final piece of the incantation furiously, “Te rogamus audi nos!”

     Greer’s head snapped back as his whole back contorted grotesquely. Black smoke billowed up from his steaming, gore-stained jaw; it seemed to puddle against the ceiling then settled like burning ash in a circle around his body. As the last piece extinguished itself on the floor and evaporated in a curl of steam, Greer’s disfigured body slumped to the ground.

     Layla allowed herself to sink against the door and catch her breath for a moment then with a growl she began to push herself up, using the door for leverage. Dean stepped lightly over Greer’s fallen form and gently took hold of her uninjured arm. He lifted her slowly but easily, watching her face in concern as she uncurled her body gingerly. She didn’t straighten completely, her ribs protesting that idea more vociferously now; instead, she cradled her arm against her side and didn’t protest as Dean supported some of her weight and guided her to the edge of the bed. Sam was probing the cut on his head delicately, grimacing in pain but he still shot her a worried, questioning look.

     “I’m fine, already,” she grumbled but softened her words with a grateful smile, first to Sam then to his brother. When she noticed her gaze lingering on Dean’s face a moment too long, she shrugged her arm out of his grasp and sank onto edge of the bed shakily. She sank a little faster than she had expected and the brothers eyed her dubiously.

     She was just about to protest about her health again when a timid knock sounded at the door, “Uh…Agents?”

* * * * *

     Dean went quickly to the door and let Forbes in, scanning the parking lot behind him. Forbes’s shoulders were hunched in pain and a small patch of blood was growing steadily under the hand pressed to his left shoulder. His expression was surprisingly calm given what had just happened although his face was pale with stress. He looked expectantly between the three hunters, waiting for explanation or orders.

     Layla pushed herself to her feet with a groan but smiled beamingly at Forbes as she spoke, her relief evident, “Forbes, I could kiss you. I thought you were dead.”

     The blush that crept over Forbes’ features was all the more evident for his fair complexion and he lowered his head uncomfortably. He stammered uncertainly then poked a finger at a bloodless bullet hole in his uniform an inch below his badge, “I almost was.” He loosened a button, revealing the matte black canvas of a bulletproof vest.

     Dean gave a low whistle and nodded towards Forbes’ shoulder. “You alright there?”

     The small man nodded, his jaw set determinedly, “I’m fine for now.”

     Dean accepted his statement with a surprised smirk of approval. He looked back towards the parking lot to where people had started filtering out of their rooms, talking excitedly. “I hate to break up the tearful reunion but….”

     Layla took in the scene, the bloody body of the sheriff on the floor and the nervous group of people that were inexorably inching towards their room, wary and curious. She grabbed Forbes’ arm and quickly dragged him out of sight of the doorway.

     “Forbes,” Layla said sharply, cutting through the shock and panic she could see spreading on the man’s face as he also began to absorb the situation. “You’re not going down for this. We’re screwed here already so people need to see you chase us. You know that old tobacco barn on Orchard Run road?”

     Forbes blinked a few times as he focused on what she had asked. He nodded in response and Layla smiled encouragingly. Over his shoulder, she caught Dean’s eye and glanced pointedly towards the bag of weapons. She locked her gaze with Forbes again, her voice stern as she tried to keep the man focused on her and not his growing anxiety. “Good. We’ll head there. I can’t explain here. There’s a lot you need to know. Now draw your weapon, Deputy.”

     Dean and Sam hesitated from where they were doing a quick sweep of the room, removing as much evidence as possible. Forbes looked startled but something in her tone grabbed him by the training and made him obey. Layla nodded encouragingly and drew her own Glock. The simple action of cocking the weapon made her left arm scream in pain but she forced herself to ignore it, addressing the others confidently, “I need you all to trust me. We need Forbes clean so we can sort this.”

     She held Forbes’ gaze warningly as she reached out slowly and removed the radio from his belt and ripped the mic from his shoulder. She tossed them casually into a corner a few feet away and fired two shots from the Glock, one per piece. A few screams outside and the sight of the gathering crowd scurrying away was exactly the result she had wanted.

     “Sam, Dean, run for the Impala. I’ll be right behind you.” The brothers nodded and moved towards the door, waiting near the frame for her to finish. “Forbes, I’m gonna put a few rounds in the wall when I go. Stand by the door frame. I won’t hit you or anyone else but I have to make it look real. When we’re out of the lot, get in your cruiser and come after us.” Her eyes flicked to the pistol he was holding, “You have to make it look real too.”

     “Just don’t shoot my car,” Dean muttered to the nervous man over his shoulder, tone light but serious.

     As soon as Forbes acknowledged the plan with a resigned nod and sigh, Layla gestured to the brothers. Layla fired another shot into the floor as they bolted out the door to the Impala. Dean made a point of opening both doors on the driver-side before sliding quickly behind the wheel.

     Layla waited long enough to make sure that Forbes was positioned against the door frame. She gave him another grateful smile and took off after the Winchesters, jogging at an angle towards the Impala in order to fire a couple carefully placed shots into the door opposite Forbes.

     The engine of the Impala was already running and it roared backwards as soon as Layla dived inside, the momentum slamming the door closed when Dean hit the brakes. Layla barely heard Forbes shout a command to halt before Dean slapped the car into drive and they fled from the lot in a cloud of smoke from the tires. As they swerved onto the street, they all could hear the report from Forbes’ pistol. They had only gone a few hundred yards when the sound of sirens cut through the night behind them.

* * * * *


	6. - Exchanging Information - First Class First Aid - Setting the Stage - An Invitation to Die For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layla Parker and the Winchesters have finally narrowed down the suspect pool. They take a minute to rest, recuperate and reconnoiter and prepare for what may prove to be their final showdown.

 

* * * * *

     As soon as they were off the main streets, Forbes cut the lights and sirens on his cruiser and Dean slowed the Impala to a more sedate pace. He exhaled heavily and shifted his gaze from the reflection of the now silent cruiser that was following them to Layla’s face.

     “You think that worked?”

     Layla shrugged one shoulder in a careful motion where she leaned heavily on the door, head resting against the glass in exhaustion. “I hope so.” A thought occurred to her as she replayed the events, looking for a flaw, trying to frame the story as she went: they hadn’t argued, they had just trusted her. When the sheriff showed, in the aftermath, the brothers still hardly knew her but they had never questioned her decisions. Either they agreed with her plans or trusted her implicitly. Either way, she felt she had to acknowledge their actions, even if she was never comfortable with these discussions.

     “Thanks for rolling with it by the way,” was the best the Layla could come up with.

     Dean cocked his head to the side and grinned playfully at her reflection in the rearview. Layla still found it disconcerting how quickly he could shift gears, one minute the focused solider and the next a charming prankster. “It wasn’t like you gave us much choice in the matter, Drill Sergeant.”

     “It was the right call,” Sam added. “We need someone on the force on our side. And people can’t know Forbes is helping us. He doesn’t deserve that.”

     Layla and Dean both nodded in silent agreement.

     “We’re gonna have to play this with extreme caution if we’re going to keep him out of trouble…more than he’s already in, that is. Turn left up here,” Layla took a deep breath and stared off into the distance for a moment, her mind kept replaying the exchange with Greer. There was something that he had said that was nagging at her and she worried at it like a loose thread.

     “That could be a hell of a lot already. You both heard what I did. The demon was riding Greer for months,” Dean said bleakly as the Impala veered off the two-lane and onto an unmarked backroad. “That means there’s a different demon in Korski.”

     Dean’s words gave the thread a tug and suddenly, Layla could see the pattern as it unraveled and where it was unwinding from.

     “No,” she said absently.

     Dean blinked in surprise, “What do you mean ‘No’?”

     Layla shook her head and looked up to meet his gaze again, her speech coming fast and excited now, the pieces falling together as she spoke. She poked her finger on the top of the front seat as if making bullet points as she spoke, “There’s more than one other demon here. Greer said that he told them that Winchesters were trouble. He wasn’t talking about the vampires so these guys made you, probably all of us, ages ago, so why come after me now?”

     Layla tried to ignore the expressions the brothers were sharing, wavering on the edge of doubt and agreement. It was much harder, however, to ignore the way Dean’s eyes kept flitting from the road to meet hers in the mirror and she had to clear her throat and regather her thoughts. She was definitely finding it more difficult than usual to impose order of any kind on her mind.

     “I think they were playing good citizens because they wanted us, or you, to get rid of these vampires and move along,” Layla continued. “They just didn’t want us finding out about this DemonDog stuff and about them. Now, who else do we know, connected to James Korski, who’s been acting like he has something to hide?”

     Both brothers began to nod reluctantly and answered together, “His brother.”

     Layla grinned and leveled a finger at the brothers with a snap, “You got it.”

     Layla glared at Dean with mock ferocity when he began laughing quietly behind his hand, obviously amused by her own change in demeanor. Her pain and exhaustion had briefly been forgotten in the excitement of figuring things out. Between the food and sleep deprivation, the falling tides of adrenalin, and the rush of finally having a lead, she was almost giddy as she spoke again, “We need to talk to Forbes but I bet both the Korski brothers have had an interesting year.”

     In an attempt to ignore Dean’s amusement, she turned to Sam and was surprised to see a worried expression on his face. While seeing Layla’s usually composed exterior crack was rather amusing, Sam couldn’t help but notice that it was indicative of something more.

     “Layla…how long have you been going?” He didn’t know why he bothered to lower his voice as if Dean couldn’t hear but he felt uncomfortable asking and it seemed appropriate somehow. Dean had heard, of course, and his laughter faded off as he tracked his brother’s line of thought and reappraised Layla’s expression and posture.

     She was slumped wearily against the door, her good arm cradling the other carefully across her torso. Dark circles were evident under her eyes, even around the bruise that was blossoming on her cheek and although she tried to hide it, both brothers could see her wince with each bump in the road.

     She blinked as if offended, “What do you mean?”

     “When was the last time you slept? Or ate something?” Sam used a soothing tone but it had the opposite effect and Layla bristled, feeling patronized.

     “Fuck. I’m fine. I got a few hours last night. I ate something this morning.”

     Dean shook his head and interjected in the conversation, “And you’ve been running on all cylinders for hours now. And you took on two vampires last night. And you’re injured.” He spoke the last sentence more softly and Layla couldn’t tell if the penitent tone was for her ribs or if he somehow blamed himself for her arm.

     Sam continued, “And how many nights before that have you been out tracking?”

     Layla rolled her eyes as she responded, “Three or so. Yeah. I’m tired and hungry but there’s miles to go before any of us get to rest. That’s the job. Take a right at the stop sign.”

     Dean frowned as she dismissed their concerns and clammed up again. It was if he could actually see the gates in her walls slamming closed against what she viewed as an unwelcome intrusion. He couldn’t remember meeting anyone else this….guarded, except maybe himself. _Fuck, was **he** this frustrating?_

     Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably and began digging through the glove box. He grabbed a bottle of Ibuprofen and an energy bar that he had stashed there for himself earlier. He offered them insistently to Layla, his expression making it obvious that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. She grudgingly accepted them and removed the cap from the Ibuprofen. Dean retrieved his flask from his inside pocket and offered it as well, “Sorry. It’s all we got up here to wash those down.”

     Layla took that with a bit more interest, “Nothing some Hunter’s Little Helper can’t fix,” she remarked drily as she tossed back a couple of the ibuprofen and chased them with the whiskey. She handed it back and ripped the wrapper off the protein bar with her teeth. She mumbled her thanks to the brothers, then to herself under her breath: “Fucking protein bars. I really fucking hate protein bars.”

* * * * *

     Forbes was leaning on the hood of the Impala waiting self-consciously. His shirt was hanging most of the way off of his skinny frame and the struggle not to cover himself was evident in his posture and flushed, anxious features. The brothers had helped him gingerly peel off his vest and inspected the wound. The second bullet had gone clean through the muscle above his collarbone, barely missing the clavicle itself. The wound had stopped bleeding on its own so Sam volunteered to bandage it since stitches or, technically, sutures of dental floss disinfected with whiskey, would be useless at this point (or could at least be avoided until real medical attention was provided).

     The Winchesters had been able to drag open one of the large equipment doors of the tobacco barn and had pulled the Impala inside. Forbes’ Crown Vic was parked behind the building, hidden from the road. Sam was just returning from the deputy’s cruiser with the first aid kit while Dean dug a pair of camping lanterns from the trunk of the Impala and placed them on the hood. Layla had made it as far as the edge of the back seat and decided that was far enough for the moment, feet dangling outside the car.

     Dean disappeared into a corner of the barn and returned a moment later bearing an empty crate that had once held quarts of motor oil, according to the faded writing on the side. He placed it near the front of the Impala where the lights were at least somewhat brighter then walked back to Layla.

     He extended a hand to her as he spoke. “C’mon. Let’s take a look at you.”

     Layla tried to glare at the hand indignantly but found that she didn’t have the energy or focus at the moment. Her entire body felt like one giant bruise with localized regions of stabbing pain for variety; it was taking all her willpower just to ward off her body’s instinct to curl into a ball of misery. She settled for straightening on her own and grabbing hold of the open door to haul herself to her feet.

     “You’re like a fussy old woman,” she protested but let Dean take her arm and guide her to a seat on the crate which he had positioned by the lights.

     “And you’re like a really bitchy one,” Dean replied as he carefully helped her sink onto the box. He only laughed when Layla scowled at him.

     He unbuttoned the sleeve of her shirt and began to roll it up lightly. When the movement elicited a sharp hiss of indrawn breath he stopped with a frown. Dean drew the knife from his belt and reached up slowly, watching her reaction with a hint of wariness as he sliced through the seam at her shoulder. When most of the fabric was loose, he ripped the rest with a strategic tug and slid the sleeve down off her arm. He grimaced in empathy when he saw her elbow, swollen and inflamed, flushed an angry red and quickly turning black and purple in spots.

     “I hope you’re not planning on amputating,” Layla grumbled, glancing at the knife he was still hold absently. She tried not to express her own revulsion at the sight of the joint, looking away quickly but also carefully avoiding Dean’s face. His concerned expression and the feelings which it elicited were more than her overworked brain could process at the moment. Dean smiled faintly and returned the blade to its sheath distractedly as he turned and began digging through the med kit.

     On the far side of the car, Sam was cleaning some of the dried blood from around Forbes’ wounds and the deputy had a far-off look in his eye as if trying to block out pain, embarrassment, or both. Layla could hear them talking quietly and judging from Forbes’ shocked expression, Sam was giving him the run-down. She always hated The Talk and was glad to let the younger Winchester handle it, especially in her current condition. A stabbing pain in her arm drew her attention back to what Dean was doing and she cursed involuntarily as he gently lifted the limb. He took a knee in front of her and carefully positioned her arm.

     “Sorry,” he mumbled as he began wrapping the joint in a length of gauze. “Keep it like that.” He worked in silence for a long moment then cleared his throat uncomfortably, “How are you feeling?”

     Layla chuckled faintly through clenched teeth as she commented wryly, “Well, considering I should probably be dead, twice, I’m feeling pretty spry.”

     The corner of his lips twitched into his characteristic smirk at her comment. “I guess we’re lucky we didn’t kill each other. You really threw us for a loop with that file of yours. We were certain you were tracking a hunter.”

     “I was. Me.”

     “You do that often? Lay out profiles on yourself for the cops?” Dean scoffed as he tucked the end of the gauze into the wrappings. He wouldn’t believe someone would have the nerve to pull something like that if he hadn’t seen it himself but then again, he was a wanted man who pretended to be FBI. Maybe normal really was relative, like Sam kept saying.

     “First time I’ve had to. This may be the biggest clusterfuck I’ve ever stepped in. Even before the demons, I’ve never seen a nest this messy, this…chaotic.”

     Dean nodded pensively as he unrolled one end of a sports bandage and held it gingerly to the inside of her arm. “Hold that,” he said softly as he began wrapping the fabric up her forearm, his movements slow and cautious as he tried not to move the limb yet attempted to keep the bandage tight. “Sam said it looked like the vamps were planning on rolling through but something made them stop.”

     “I saw that too.” Layla grunted as Dean tugged the bandage tight at the joint and started up her bicep. Layla thought she saw a twinge in the corner of his eyes each time she flinched.

     “So maybe nothing made them stop. Maybe there was something in the blood supply here they liked…” Dean trailed off suggestively, letting her catch up with the path he was following.

     Layla’s eyes widened as she realized what he was saying. She grinned and grabbed his arm enthusiastically, “You are a genius.” Somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice pointed out the firm muscles in his arm and how solid they felt under her hand. The longer she went without sleep, the louder that voice seemed to be getting.

     Dean hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing down at Layla’s hand on his arm. Then he cocked his head to the side in exaggerated modesty and shrugged as he began to fiddle with the small metal clips on the end of the bandage. “Say that louder next time. And somewhere Sam can hear.”

     Layla laughed softly. “You’re completely right though. I saw that blonde one feeding on the kid at the bar. She was definitely stoned afterwards. And it would explain why the demons would want them dead…I guess.” Layla’s brow crinkled as she tried to piece that last one together. Other than spreading misery, she didn’t really see an endgame for the demons here but maybe misery was all they wanted.

     Layla realized Dean was finished wrapping her arm and she caught his hand in hers as he pulled it away. She lowered her voice as she spoke hesitantly, “Thanks. I know I can be a pain in the ass sometimes.”

     Dean was surprised by the rush of warmth that surged through his veins when she took his hand and he actually found himself speechless for a moment. He dismissed the feeling quickly, covering it with a teasing grin as he shook her hand playfully, “Hi, Pot. I’m Kettle. Nice to meet you.”

     “Jerk,” she responded, snatching her hand back and giving him a soft punch on the arm.

     Dean opened his mouth as if he was going to respond to that statement. His eyes widened suddenly and he reconsidered his response. He snapped his mouth shut with an enigmatic grin and rose to his feet, leaning back against the Impala. Layla opted for not expending energy at the moment and remained seated but turned her attention back to the group as a whole.

     Forbes was comparatively clean now and wearing a black t-shirt with a gold badge printed on the breast. From this distance, she could barely make out the small charm for preventing demonic possession that now hung around his throat. He stood in quiet conference with Sam, both men leaning against the far side of the Impala. Layla fought an almost overwhelming urge to snicker at the way Sam towered over the deputy but she blamed it on post-adrenalin jitters and quieted the impulse.

     Dean interjected in their conversation casually as he folded his arms across his chest, “So, Forbes, we all caught up now?”

     The small man straightened and gathered his hat from the roof of the car, replacing it on his head with the same solemnity as some ancient warrior might have donned his ancestors’ armor. “Yes, sir. I believe I am,” he began listing off facts as he walked around the car towards them. Coming from anyone else in something approximating a uniform, the list of actions he recited would have made the most hardened soul fear prison but his voice was blameless as he spoke. “Not one of you is actually FBI. You’re Dean Winchester and that’s your brother, Sam. Her name’s Layla. And you all kill monsters for a living…”

     “Well, not technically for a living,” Layla interrupted. “It’s not like it pays or anything.”

     Dean grinned at her comment; Sam also bit down on a smirk as he leaned an arm on the top of the Impala and observed the conversation. Forbes continued unperturbed, “…and we have a gang of vampires in town eating folks, except Layla here and James Korski, who is also a demon, have been killing them but he’s also selling some crazy new drug. Oh…and the sheriff was possessed by a demon and he died when you exorcized it…did I forget anything?”

     “That about covers it. Did Sam happen to say “thanks” anywhere in there?” Layla said uneasily.

     Forbes gave a short laugh. “He did, actually, but you’re welcome. So what’s our next move?”

     “Forbes, you are the definition of exceptional.” Layla echoed his laugh. “But Dean and I were just…talking and we think that DemonDog stuff is why the vampires are hanging around and why they’re acting so crazy.”

     “DemonDog?” Forbes repeated thoughtfully. “Stuff looks like some really gross dope only its blood red with a picture of a pit-bull on the bag?”

     The three hunters exchanged shocked looks before nodding to Forbes.

     “How did you know?” Dean asked.

     “We’ve been finding the stuff all over town, DUIs, car wrecks, ODs, domestics, even a couple homicides. It’s like it shows up everywhere something bad happens. There’s a whole box of it back at the station.”

     “I doubt it’s the whole box,” Layla said dryly. “Meyers and Doyle gave a package of it to James Korski earlier.”

     Forbes’ expression fell into a look of disgust, “Are they demons too?”

     Each of the three hunters shrugged in turn as he looked to each of them. Finally, Sam answered, “You’d probably the best to know if you’ve worked with them for a while. Does it sound like something that they…the real them…would do?”

     Forbes mulled the question over for a long moment before nodding with an unhappy sigh, “Unfortunately, it does. Or it’s not much of a stretch, anyway.”

     “Then they’re probably not demons, just scumbags,” Layla commented acerbically, “which just leaves the question of Don Korski, James’ brother. James said he had a run in with a demon about a year ago and you,” Layla gestured to Forbes, “said that Don turned his business around at about the same time.”

     Forbes inclined his head in acknowledgement.

     “I’m guessing that’s about the same time this DemonDog started showing up, isn’t it?”

     Forbes pondered for a moment before nodding again. “So Don Korski’s a demon then?”

     “Smart money’s on yeah,” said Dean, glancing between the other hunters for a sign that one of them had a plan.

     Layla sighed heavily as she added, “Whatever we’re gonna do, we have tonight to do it. This town is getting extremely unfriendly.”

     Silence fell across the group like a wet blanket.

* * * * *

     Layla hated riding in the back of police cars; granted, they didn’t usually let her keep her weapons and she didn’t usually have Dean Winchester riding beside her. The sullen set of Dean’s jaw made it apparent that he shared her opinion of their transportation however. Dean had been quite vocal about his displeasure at stashing the Impala a couple miles up the road from Aero-Post. Eventually, he had agreed that they couldn’t risk the vehicle being seen and climbed into the back of the cruiser grudgingly.

     When they pulled into the lot in front of Aero-Post, Sam climbed quickly out of the front seat and opened the rear door for Dean and Layla. He leaned in the window as the other two went to the trunk to retrieve the supplies.

     “Once we’re in,” Sam said to Forbes, “just tape it up and come inside. We still need to figure out the specifics.”

     Forbes nodded wordlessly and went around to the trunk to get the yellow crime scene tape. Layla and Dean were already waiting by the door. Sam joined them and took a knee in front of the door, fishing his lock-picks from his pocket. He selected two and began maneuvering them deftly within the mechanism while the others kept watch. The area was deserted, however, and not a single pair of headlights was visible along the highway in the distance.

     A soft click announced the door unlocking and Sam held it open for the others, ushering them quickly inside with a last wary glance over the distance. Forbes lingered outside long enough to wrap the bright yellow tape around the brick columns that supported the awning and then followed the others into the building.

     The three hunters each made a quick circuit of the structure, taking note of all the possible entry ways and choke points. Although the only windows were in the small business area in the front, almost the entire back wall of the attached warehouse was comprised of four giant bay doors for loading semi-trailers. Four rows of shelves, reaching nearly to the 20-foot ceiling, ran the length of the warehouse with only one gap halfway down the aisles. Each individual shelf was massive in its own right, three feet tall and six feet deep, stacked with crates, boxes, and pallets of packages wrapped in plastic. To one side, the red glow of an exit sign cast the far corner in an infernal light. They reconvened near the entrance to the office and began running through their options.

     Dean grimaced and ran a hand over the side of his short hair. “I don’t like it. There’s too many ways around in there.”

     Layla and Sam exchanged pensive looks. As she walked to the counter where they had deposited their bags, Sam addressed his brother, “It’s all we’ve got. We can’t risk another shootout in public. If we trap the doors and salt the rest, we have a chance.”

     Dean snorted. “Maybe, if these demons are blind and stupid.”

     Layla listened silently, pondering over their plan as she began digging cans of spray paint from one of their bags. Forbes was leaning against the frame of the front door, his hand resting nervously on his belt and near his pistol as he scanned the road for traffic.

     Sam shrugged and joined Layla at the counter, grabbing a large tin of salt in each hand. “There’s enough of us. We can keep him distracted, keep him talking and force him into position.”

     “That’s assuming they decide to play nice and come in single file,” Dean held up a hand mockingly, “Sorry, sir. There’s a fifteen minute wait for exorcisms at the moment.”

     Layla looked over the supplies gathered on the countertop. Both brothers were right. This was far from ideal but they didn’t have another option. To make her even more uneasy, there was only one other shotgun available: the tactical shotgun from the trunk of Forbes’ cruiser and Layla couldn’t hold it with her injured arm. She definitely didn’t like the idea of facing two demons with a pea-shooter and a squirt bottle of holy water. At the end of their inventory of weapons was a stack of office and shipping supplies. Her eyes lingered on the grease pens gathered in a novelty mug. An image of the spotlights that were installed by each loading bay to light the interior of the trailers formed in her mind. Layla snatched a black grease pen from the cup and cut off Sam’s rebuttal.

     “I’ve got it. You guys salt the bay doors and paint the traps in the warehouse like we talked. I’m gonna make us some mobile demon traps. Then, Agent Gills is going to be making a phone call. ”

 

* * * * *

     The phone rang four times. Sam began to worry that the call would go to voicemail when an annoyed voice sounded on the other end of the line, “Hello?”

     “Mr. Korski? It’s Agent Gills.” Sam grimaced. He felt strange attempting to use a cover that all signs seemed to say was blown but if they were wrong and Don Korski really was human, he wouldn’t know that. “I’m afraid there’s been a break-in at your business. Agent Willis and I are there now. We know there’s been some vandalism but we need you to come down here and tell us if anything’s missing.”

     “What?! Fuck. Fine…I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

     Dean and Layla exchanged dubious glances then turned to Sam in unison.

     “You think he bought it?” Dean asked his brother.

     Sam shrugged heavily. “We can’t know till he gets here. Either he’s known who we were all along or he’s human. Or maybe he was human and now he’s not. But he…or they will come either way, for us or Layla or the evidence back there.”

     “I guess we’ll find out in fifteen minutes.” Layla said drily. “Places, everyone.”

* * * * *


	7. Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trap is set. Now Layla and the Winchesters just have to see what they can catch.

* * * * *

     A silhouette stepped into the front doorway of the warehouse, backlit by the dull glow from the office area.

     “Agent Gills? Are you there?” Don Korski’s voice echoed through the darkness that shrouded the rows of crates and boxes. His tone was nervous and impatient as he scanned the shadows. The exit sign oozed out a meager puddle of red light in front of him.

     “Yeah. Mr. Korski, down here,” Sam called from near the end of the aisle directly in front of the door. Layla, who was standing slightly in front of him, flipped on the large metal flashlight she held in her left hand. Even the tiny amount of pressure necessary for that motion made the muscles in her arm scream. Hell, holding the thing was almost agony on its own. In her right hand, she grasped an open flask of holy water.

     Don Korski held a hand up to shield his eyes and walked towards the flashlight, blinking rapidly as he tried to peer past the blinding light.

     “What the hell’s going on, Agent? Why di-…” Don’s words ended abruptly as he made out the devil’s trap spray-painted on the floor a few steps in front of him. “What the hell is that? Some kind of Satan worship? Is this what you called me about?”

     Sam cleared his throat and cautiously raised his sawed off, stepping farther from Layla’s side to avoid firing the weapon next to her head. “That’s part of it. Just step this way, if you would.”

     The man settled his hands on his hips, scowling down at the trap at his feet. Layla briefly cocked her head in Sam’s direction. Sam spared her a reticent glance before he slipped away into the next aisle soundlessly. Layla prayed that his noiseless movements were masked by the blinding beam from the flashlight.

     “Well, I guess it’s time we all stop playing games then,” Don’s voice sounded almost bored as he blinked meaningfully. Layla had been expecting the change but she was startled to see his eyes turn not black but a bright crimson as he continued to talk. “I know you’re here, Winchesters...and Miss Parker. And we can all walk away. I’m here to make you a deal.”

     Layla laughed harshly and began to edge forward; she was almost halfway down the row of shelves and still almost twenty feet away from the man across the devil’s trap.

     “Gotta say I wasn’t expecting one of your kind. Don’t you usually make a deal and skip town?”

     Don’s head turned a fraction of an inch as he followed her voice and even shrouded in darkness Layla could feel his eyes boring into hers. After a brief pause, Don chuckled in return and he blinked again, his irises resuming their normal brown color. He idly adjusted the collar of his expensive polo shirt as he responded,

     “Have you looked around, girl? This place is a buffet. Why wait to be called when you can have call waiting?”

     A whisper of movement echoed in the recesses of the warehouse and he sighed theatrically.

     “You know I could snap her neck in a heartbeat, boys. This is just common courtesy. You could do the same. Why not come out and chat?”

     “I don’t make deals with demons,” Layla spat and took another determined step forward. She wasn’t sure how much she wanted to push this, especially considering she had neither salt nor iron rounds, just holy water and her Glock loaded with hollow points. And a flashlight. Great plan, Layla. Good progress on the martyr complex by the way, she thought sardonically.

     The crossroads demon erupted in laughter. “Ha! You’d be the only one out of this lot then.”

     Layla’s stomach twisted at the possible implications of that statement, especially given some of the rumors she had heard about the Winchesters. She forced herself to dismiss the thought; that was a problem for later, if it was true at all.

     She ignored the demon’s conversational bait and continued, “So what makes this town so special?”

     “Well, we did. Of course,” Don grinned at her charmingly but it only served to make Layla’s skin crawl. He gestured around at the building, “Personally, I love this place. It was a truly an international crossroads before the recession. Hell, this whole town exists because it was a crossroads but the people are…generic.”

     “Then why come here?” Layla forced herself not to react as she saw a tall figure slip into the aisle behind Korski, cast in the red glow of the Exit sign.

     “Convenience and the smell of desperation, mostly. We just applied the right leverage to the right cracks and well…you know the rest.”

     “The drugs…” Layla started to reply.

     Don cleared his throat and flipped a finger towards Layla absently. A large package on the shelf beside her hurtled from its place and slammed into her shoulder. The impact wasn’t much really, enough to stagger her and knock the flask from her hand. The shock on her damaged elbow however was excruciating and the flashlight clattered onto the floor as her fingers temporarily ceased responding to her commands.

     The flashlight rolled away from her and towards Don Korski. Lalyla retrieved her pistol from its holster and took a knee warily against one shelf. Shadows leapt and cavorted wildly as the flashlight tumbled, rolled then finally wobbled to a halt near the edge of the devil’s trap. The beam of light finally settled at Don’s feet, casting his face in a sinister glow.

     “I wouldn’t try it, Sam,” the demon said evenly. “Consider that a polite, but final, warning.” Don began to turn as he spoke but stopped halfway as the newly angled light revealed Dean, crouched on the large shelf beside him.

     “Hey there,” Dean grinned puckishly as he doused the demon’s face in holy water. The demon shrieked and backed away from the water, clutching at his blistering skin. Although the flesh around his eyes sizzled audibly, he was somehow cognizant enough not step towards the trap.

     “Clear!” Layla called as she hit the ground, making herself as flat as possible. The roar of Sam’s sawed-off sounded almost before the echoes of the word had faded. A barrage of iron shot tore down the aisle, past where remained Dean crouched on the shelf and over Layla’s prostrate form.

     Sam fired two more shells into the crossroads demon’s chest as it turned to face him, each shot forcing it back towards the outline of the circle. The demon in Don snarled and snapped his head back, inhaling deeply in preparation of the familiar scream and accompanying smoke-out.

     “Oh, hell no.” Dean growled as he hopped down from the shelf. He jabbed the butt of his shotgun into the demon’s jaw and it snapped closed with a crunch. He followed through by hammering the stock into the demon’s chest. Dean’s second swing forced it back the last foot into the circle.

     It wasn’t much as battle cries went but it had worked. Layla forced herself up slowly, trying not to jostle her arm more than necessary. She walked forward and retrieved her flashlight from the edge of the trap.

     The demon growled in pain as tongues of smoke began to writhe from its blood soaked torso. More blood bubbled from its mouth as it spoke, holding up its hands defensively, “Now, this doesn’t necessarily negate negotiations. I’m still willi-…”

     “This is all the negotiating I’m doing,” Dean interrupted gruffly, aiming his double-barrel sawed-off at the demon’s gut. “You can go back to hell or you can go back to hell in pieces and smoking like the 4th of July. Now where’s James…or that thing that was riding him?”

     “If the result is the same, you have no leverage,” the demon inside Don sneered at Dean.

     “Oh. Leverage. Yeah.” Dean nodded amiably, “Ya gotta have leverage.”

     Layla was momentarily blinded a moment later as Dean squeezed the trigger on the sawed-off. The shell only contained rock salt but Dean had been standing close enough to the demon that the muzzle blast scorched Don’s clothing. The crossroads demon’s eyes flashed crimson again as it screamed and crumpled to its knees, clutching at the steaming tatters of flash on its abdomen.

     Dean’s eyes widened in mock surprise then he chuckled and leaned forward slightly, “Now would you like some more leverage or would you like to tell us where the hell we can find the other demon?”

     A voice behind Layla made her blood turn to ice.

     “Now, now, boys and girls, can’t we skip the barbarities?”

     Layla spun to face the sound, instinctively wanting to back away but not wanting to step nearer the occupied devil’s trap either. What had been empty space behind her was now filled by a dark figure. There had been no flash of light, no smoke, no forewarning; where there had been nothing, now there was a man. And for some reason, he was holding an incongruously festive, large red cooler in both hands. Layla swung the light onto his face and James Korski grinned theatrically, blinking the murky blackness from his eyes as he spoke.

     “I even come bearing gifts,” he held the cooler up briefly before setting it on the concrete floor. He placed his foot on the lip and slid it towards Layla, who stopped its progression with her own booted foot. The cooler was heavier than she’d been expecting and it took some effort not to stumble as she absorbed its momentum.

     Layla swallowed drily and glanced down at the red and white plastic of the cooler nervously. She’d seen this horror movie. She kept her Glock leveled at James’ chest as she nudged the cooler nervously with the toe of her boot.

     Dean craned his neck to see around Layla. Sam had joined him and they were both watching anxiously from the far side of the devil’s trap. Don was now grinning victoriously despite the smoke still curling up from the iron shot smoldering in his chest. The blood on his frame was already beginning to dry as the demon inside worked to repair the damage to its meatsuit. The brothers exchanged frustrated glances as they looked for a way around the devil’s trap other than back up the aisle. That certainly wouldn’t go unnoticed and Layla’s life would be all but forfeit.

     Of course, the Winchesters are on the other side of the devil’s trap with all the useful weapons because, ya know, fuck my life, Layla thought acerbically.

     “What’s in the box, James?” Dean demanded warily as he edged sideways, trying to find an angle that allowed him to aim around Layla and at the demon.

     “I told you. It’s a gift,” James’ voice would have been pleasantly sociable in other, less unholy circumstances. “You hunters really are an untrusting lot.” He pointed briefly towards the cooler, his eyes flashing black for a fraction of a second, and the lid popped open.

     Layla glanced into the cooler quickly, flipping the flashlight downwards to view the contents. She kept her face carefully emotionless at the sight of the three severed heads, two male, one female…but no, not severed, torn. These heads had been ripped off. She had to assume that these were the rest of the bloodsuckers she and the Winchesters had been hunting but seeing the shredded flesh at the stumps of their necks was not a welcome reminder of the strength of the demon inside James.

     “The vampires?” she asked, if only to name aloud the container’s contents for Sam and Dean.

     James shrugged contritely, holding his hands out to his sides for a moment before folding them calmly in front of him. “They were an unexpected complication, I’m afraid. I thought I could make them useful.”

     Layla cocked her head in confusion, “…make them useful?”

     James grinned smugly as he replied, “Well, when we made this stuff, this DemonDog…good name by the way, don’t you think?”

     He continued with a dejected sigh when Layla remained silent.

     “Anyways…when we made it, we had no idea that those overgrown mosquitos would get their kicks off junkie blood. I mean, how could we? They definitely weren’t our target market. We were simply creating a high quality product with high brand loyalty for maximum customer retention.”

     Layla really didn’t care at this point why the demons had done what they had but she didn’t have much choice other than to keep him talking. She tried not to move her eyes as she shifted her attention over James’ shoulder to the small strip of fabric hanging from one of the supports about five feet behind him.

     _Five fucking feet and zero fucking weapons._

     “What the hell are you talking about?” she snapped impatiently.

     He chuckled passively and sauntered to one of the shelves, leaning his back against it and crossing his arms casually.

     “I’m talking about our beautiful little venture here. This DemonDog…we’re bringing in souls like we’re minting money; only souls don’t lose their value when the market’s flooded. Do you know what a junkie will do for his next fix? What he will…give up?” James paused suggestively and scratched at the dark stubble on his narrow jaw. “Now imagine you had the best dope around, dope so good that nothing else came close, nothing else could get rid of that itch?”

     James’ hand ceased its motion pointedly as he grinned at Layla.

     “It’s a win-win scenario,” he continued, pointing first to his bloodstained, red-eyed comrade kneeling in the devil’s trap, then back to himself. “Some souls get sold. The rest just get…tarnished. But we ran into issues with distribution. There really wasn’t a limit to what these addicts would do for their next fix. Our human distributors were getting robbed, beaten up, even murdered…which did bring most of their souls to us eventually but it interfered with productivity. But no one robs a vampire and they wanted these humans shooting up. So when I noticed them lingering around, I put them to work. Win-win-win, right?”

     “Except for the actual people in this town,” Layla growled in disgust.

     “Oh, please, like they’re so innocent. You can thank Big Pharma for the opiate epidemic. That’s a human endeavor right there and we never forced anyone to do anything.”

     “You just fed them to vampires.”

     “That was enforcement, necessary even. If you think this town is falling apart now, you’d hate to see what it would have become if I didn’t let those bloodsuckers skim off the worst of the worst. And as long as their human blood-bags were full of a nice strong dose of moloko plus, they were practically docile.”

     “Eating a dozen people is docile?” Dean asked from behind her. He and Sam were still stranded anxiously on the far side of the devil’s trap, pinned in place by Don’s watchful gaze and the knowledge that any move to circle around or intervene would probably only result in Layla’s broken neck.

     “Dozen?” James laughed heartily, “twice that, easily. Those are just the ones who were noticed…or found. I’m afraid I miscalculated the restraint of our little pets and the effect of the drugs transmitted to them. Eventually, I even had to call someone in to possess the sheriff and keep a lid on things…

     “And Doyle and Meyers?” Layla interjected.

     “Doyle and Meyers? Demons?” James scoffed, “They’re just stupid and greedy, two of my favorite human traits, I might add. But no, they’re not demons, yet.” James’ eyes flicked past Layla towards the brothers. He smiled enigmatically as if sharing a joke with them then returned his gaze to Layla, flashing a charming smile as he continued.

     “So when Layla Parker showed up to save us all from the vampires, I think, ‘why not?’ Solves my problem and keeps her distracted, but then the Winchesters show. Now that was amusing, watching you circle each other. But still you couldn’t find these damn vampires. Not even when I leave you a dead vampire to link them to our houses, to their nest.”

     “So that body was supposed to be some kind of clue? You must really suck at charades,” Dean quipped.

     James pursed his lips in an unamused expression as he continued:

     “But the last human they took… Tracey, wasn’t it? Well, she was clean, completely. They snatched her, shot her up and killed her. I can’t have that. If I don’t get the souls, these vampires are just a liability. And now we have a real mess on our hands: you know about us, you know about the DemonDog and if you disappear, more hunters will come. The operation is blown here, no matter how I play it, so why don’t we all just walk away like civilized…entities?”

     “That’s not how this works, James, and you know it,” Layla said flatly and stepped cautiously around the cooler.

     He gave her a warning look as she stepped nearer but made no move to intervene yet, “Please, call me Resheph, if you would. James was a drooling junkie I found half dead in a gutter. I’m probably the best thing that ever happened to him.”

     “I don’t care who you are. You know only one team walks off the field tonight.” Layla flipped off the safety and cocked the hammer on her pistol.

     James, or now-Resheph, sighed dramatically and straightened from his casual pose, turning to face Layla. “Little girl, you’ve lost. I’m willing to let you go because …honestly, this was just a side project, a hobby. It’s been fascinating and lucrative but it’s not even a minor setback. There are others, however, who would be perturbed if I interfered with their plans for you…any of you. And I do so hate playing politics.”

     “Then don’t let me inconvenience you,” Layla spoke gravely as she took another deliberate step forward, putting herself only a few steps from Resheph. “Go ahead, Forbes.”

     Layla flicked her gaze over Resheph’s shoulder to the deputy, who stood a few feet behind him, the tactical shotgun pointed between the demon’s shoulders. He had been waiting in the far corner in order to man the spotlights but had begun creeping forward silently sometime during the conversation. It had taken almost all of Layla’s concentration not to track his progress with her eyes as she faced off with the smug, black-eyed bastard.

     Forbes hesitated just long enough to nod slightly, an apologetic look crossing his features as he squeezed the trigger. Layla closed her eyes just before the explosion of light and noise. She held her breath and prayed that Forbes had lined up the shot right as the iron buckshot exploded into Resheph’s back.

     She felt a stinging sensation on her cheek and she burst into motion as the pain alerted her that the shot had passed and she was, surprisingly, still alive after all. She charged forward, dropping her right shoulder to slam it into the demon’s chest. She collided with him just as the searing pain of the iron registered and Resheph arched his back, trying to claw out the smoking rounds. Layla had tried to angle herself to push him back and then roll away but the demon let himself fall with her momentum. When she didn’t encounter the resistance she had expected, Layla began to tumble with him.

     Sam and Dean had started running the instant the shot had been fired. Clambering over the large shelves, they skirted the devil’s trap holding the crossroads demon.

     “Get the light!” Sam called to Forbes as Dean kicked a crate from the shelf separating them from the struggle. He climbed through to where Layla was scrambling to escape the demon, Sam following close on his heels.

     Layla’s pistol and flashlight both tumbled from her hands as she scrambled to catch herself and escape before Resheph got ahold of her. Her arm screamed in pain as it tried to take part of her weight but she forced herself to ignore it. She was almost to her feet when Resheph twisted suddenly beneath her and latched a hand directly over the bandage on her forearm. He grinned calmly as she cried out in pain, the smile growing wider and his eyes flashing black as he squeezed.

     Resheph didn’t display a hint of exertion but Layla’s world exploded in agony. For a second, that was all she could remember. She didn’t know where she was, who was with her, why they were there…she just had to get away from the pain. Dean would swear later he had heard the bones snap right before Layla screamed.

     He swung a booted foot into the side of Resheph’s head and the demon released its grip with a snarl, slashing the hand towards Dean, who was bringing his shotgun to bear. Dean was knocked from his feet as if swatted away by an invisible hand, slamming into the shelf across the aisle.

     Layla rolled away as soon as Resheph’s grip had been released, stars flashing in her vision with every movement as she staggered dizzily to her feet. Sam emerged just behind his brother. He had levelled his pump-action sawed-off at the demon and when Dean was thrown aside, he fired instantly. He was down to salt shells now and they did little physical damage, only serving to distract the demon temporarily as it howled and thrashed in pain.

     Sam pumped the shotgun and fired again, pinning Resheph down as Dean hauled himself to his feet and rushed to Layla’s side. He grabbed her right arm and dragged her firmly towards the bay doors at the back of the warehouse. Layla let herself be pulled away and slumped heavily against the wall at the end of the shelves. Dean positioned himself defensively in front of her, shotgun aimed at the demon.

     Sam remained where he was, keeping Resheph between himself and the back of the warehouse. The demon writhed on the ground for a moment then lurched onto all fours, spitting blood and curses. Sam checked the position of the tattered cloth marker on the shelf. Barely a foot left to go and they would be in the clear.

     Sam fixed his gaze back onto Resheph as the demon staggered onto its knees. He fired another salt shell into the demon’s chest when it began to lift an arm in his direction, its clothes smoldering in the wake of the muzzle blast. Sam followed the blast with a strategically placed heel thrust to the demon’s smoking, mangled chest, shoving him backwards.

     As the demon sprawled back beyond the marker, there was a loud ‘thunk’ from the direction of the bay doors. The spotlight hummed to life, swinging up to pin the demon in place with the devil’s trap drawn on its lens. Forbes stood nervously beside the metal arm which supported the light but he held it steady as Sam begin to chant the exorcism rite, shouting to be heard over the shrieks and curses from the two trapped demons. An unnatural wind began to whip around the warehouses, stirring up scraps of paper and debris.

     Layla sighed with relief but as the tension began to slip away, so did her ability to remain standing. Her knees began to tremble and she folded slowly, sliding down the wall as a tide of pain and exhaustion overwhelmed her.

     Dean caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and did a double-take as she slid to the ground. He stepped back and knelt beside her, still keeping a wary eye on the two trapped demons as his brother drew near the end of the incantation. He braced an arm against the shelf, shielding her from the worst of the wind and debris as Sam finished the recitation and the demons erupted from their hosts in burning, cracking plumes of smoke. The wind died as the smoke burned away on the cement floor; the bodies collapsed a moment later.

     As silence rolled through the warehouse, Dean reached down and lifted Layla’s chin gently. He winced at the sight of the cut on her cheek, not because it was particularly bad, but rather at the thought of how close that shot had come. She fixed her eyes on him wearily and he searched her eyes with concern. It was clear she was having trouble focusing on him.

     “Layla. Hey… you good?” Dean asked quietly. Sam and Forbes jogged up behind him a moment later, both wearing worried expressions.

     “Next time, you get to be bait,” she grumbled but didn’t pull away from his hand.

     “Won’t work. I’m not as cute,” Dean joked automatically. He glanced over his shoulder when a hand tapped him there.

     Sam extended a handkerchief to his brother. Dean set aside his shotgun to take the handkerchief and press it gingerly to Layla’s cheek. He caught Sam’s gaze and glanced away pointedly. His brother took the hint, nudging Forbes’ shoulder and leading him away to prepare for the next step in their cleanup.

     Dean fixed his gaze back on Layla. “You didn’t answer my question.”

     “I’ll be fine.”

     Dean gently forced her gaze up to meet his, his expression dubious. Layla was surprised to realize that her chin was still resting in the crook of his finger. Dean ran his thumb lightly across her cheek, tracing it absently under the curve of her lips. She found herself smiling slightly despite the pain and he seemed to take that for an answer. A cloudy thought emerged from the haze in Layla’s mind, reminding her she was in no condition to be making decisions at the moment. With a reluctant sigh, she slipped away from Dean’s hand and leaned her head back against the wall. He frowned slightly but quickly disguised the expression behind a methodical guise.

     “You’re sitting out the next round,” he said sternly as he peeked tentatively under the handkerchief. When he was sure the bleeding had stopped, he rose to his feet and lifted her carefully. He could feel her knees shake as they took her weight and he wrapped her good arm over his shoulder, helping her towards the front of the building.

     “When are you gonna learn you’re not the boss of me, Winchester?” Layla griped teasingly through clenched teeth.

     “Don’t you know?” He grinned at her dashingly. “I’m Dean fucking Winchester. I never learn.”

 

* * * * *


	8. - Before the Flames - Patched Up - In The Wake of Chaos - Settling In -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The worst of the worst is over. Now there's just the broken bones and bodies to deal with. That...and actually getting to know each other in the wake of chaos but as soon as they start talking, secrets start piling up.

* * * * *

            “It’s not every day we get a police escort,” Dean’s voice betrayed his fatigue despite an attempt to sound jovial, “at least, not the friendly kind.”

            The Impala was once again cruising down unmarked backroads, skirting the edge of town as the morning crept up on them. This time, however, the Winchesters were following Forbes in his cruiser as he led them to another of Korski’s properties. There was just over an hour remaining before the sun would begin to creep over the horizon.

            Dean rolled up the sleeves of the blood-spattered, light-blue dress shirt he was still wearing. His suit jacket was now wrapped loosely around Layla’s arm, acting as a cushion and holding in place the ice pack from the medical kit. She lay in the back seat, left arm propped on her chest and the right cushioning her head. Dean glanced into the rearview and scrutinized her expression as he flipped on the radio and turned it up cautiously. Lynard Skynard’s “Three Steps” faded in and muffled the sound of the engine. Dean spoke only when he was certain Layla would remain asleep, pitching his voice to the same volume as the radio.

            “She needs a hospital, Sam. She’d be in a hell of a lot of pain if she wasn’t too worn out to notice.”

            Sam turned on the seat to keep an eye on Layla before responding, both out of concern and caution that their conversation might rouse her. “Yeah, she does but we have to make it out of town first.” He gestured forward out of the window vaguely, indicating their unknown destination. “It sounds like this is where we’re gonna find the vampires’ bodies. It’s the only other house Korski owned that’s secluded enough for a nest to go unnoticed. And we can’t dump this mess on Forbes.”

            “Or Layla will kill us when she wakes up,” Dean chuckled and Sam noted the thoughtful smile that creased the corner of his brother’s eye. Sam smirked as he bit down on a teasing comment. He was just too tired to dig at his brother…for now, anyway.

            “She was definitely pretty insistent on finishing this,” Sam remarked instead, opting for a neutral route.

            Dean nodded distractedly, “I think she really would have stayed behind if we hadn’t agreed with her plan.” He drove in silence for a moment and reassured himself that Layla was still sleeping before addressing Sam in a hushed tone, “Did Bobby send anything back when you texted him her name?”

            Sam shook his head. “Nothing we didn’t know. Just that he’d heard of her. He would have called if he knew anything worth knowing.”

            “Huh.” Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully. He glanced at his brother furtively from the corner of his eye. He wanted to ask if Sam had noticed what the demon had said about plans for all of them but a surge of protectiveness overwhelmed the inclination. He decided not to remind his little brother of Azazel’s plan for him and what it might mean now that the Big Bad was dead….if it meant anything. They could cross that bridge if and when it became relevant.

            Dean dragged his mind back to the present task as the cruiser ahead of them began to slow and turned down a long, rutted driveway that twisted through the trees.

            “Let’s wrap this up quick. I want to be miles from here before that sun rises.”

* * * * *

            The brothers reconvened in the kitchen of the small two story house after a quick sweep. They lowered their machetes together when their flashlights illuminated each other’s faces.

            The tense expression on Sam’s face answered Dean’s question before it was asked, “Basement?”

            Sam nodded and glanced back at the door he had just exited. “Yeah. Three bodies….or most of them anyway.”

            “I’m guessing we have the missing pieces in that cooler. Any sign there were more?” Dean said as he flicked the flashlight around the empty house. The main floors were completely vacant and half-gutted, wires and insulation visible on most of the walls.

            “Hard to tell. I don’t think so but it’s a real bloodbath down there,” Sam swallowed a few times as he tried to work some moisture back into his throat. “I’m not pro-vampire but that’s just…disgusting.”

            Dean’s brow rose slightly as he glanced at his brother. It must be really bad if Sam was reacting like that. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said as he started towards the door.  

            Forbes was waiting anxiously by his cruiser when they emerged. He sagged visibly with relief when the brothers exited the house calmly without any sounds of struggle or gunshots preceding them. Dean flipped the beam of his flashlight briefly towards the Impala as he and Sam rejoined the deputy between the vehicles. He could just make out Layla slumbering in the back seat and he turned back to Forbes when he was certain she was indeed still asleep.

            “They’re in there. So that takes care of that,” Dean exhaled wearily as he re-sheathed his machete. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he ran over the events in his mind, trying to make sure everything lined up. “What about your guys…Dyers and…”

            “Meyers and Doyle,” Sam supplied as he stowed his weapons away as well.

            Forbes took a deep breath and sat back against the hood of his Crown Vic. “I reckon I can handle them. I got those drugs they took from lockup and gave to James Korski. The evidence logs must be doctored and that won’t be hard to find. Not to mention, everything’s recorded at the station so they’ve got to be on camera doing it. They probably assumed no one else would be looking since the sheriff was…”

            The small man trailed off and the brothers could see that the whirlwind of recent events was settling in. Forbes was one of those people who held up remarkably well in the face of a crisis but now that the immediate danger was gone, the weight of everything that had happened that night was slowly making itself known.

            Sam derailed his train of thought before they lost him, “Forbes. That wasn’t the sheriff, not anymore. Same goes for the others.”

            Forbes nodded and drew himself up, adjusting his hat, “Yeah. It’s just... a lot to absorb. But the point is that they’ve been sloppy and they’ll get put away for it.”

            Dean leaned down slightly so he could catch the smaller man’s eye, an edge of sternness lacing his voice, “So you know the story? You’re sure you can do this?”

            Forbes looked uneasily between the two brothers. He nodded grimly, his jaw set in determination. “I don’t much like lying but all this…” he gestured around vaguely, the motion somehow encompassing the severed heads in the cooler, the vampires in the house, the drugs, the demons, the last 12 hours, “…it’s too much for folks to handle. And y’all shouldn’t be made into villains for cleaning up other people’s messes.”

            Dean grinned and patted the man on his uninjured shoulder. “Forbes, you’re awesome.”

            “Seriously. Thanks,” Sam added and extended his hand.

            Dean went to the back of the cruiser and retrieved the cooler, his lips curled in distaste as he carried it into the house. Sam retrieved a jerry can of gas from the back of the Impala, shutting the trunk as quietly as possible; then followed his brother. They returned a few minutes later. Dean, now empty-handed, fished a zippo from his pocket as Sam shook the last of the gasoline onto the steps of the house.

            “No offense, Forbes,” Dean commented as he flicked the lighter and crouched, “but I am damn glad to be done with this town.” He touched the flame to the trail of gasoline in punctuation. The flames danced in his eyes as they crawled hungrily up the steps and over the walls of the house.  

            Sam watched his brother observing the flames silently as if mesmerized. He shook his head slightly to himself, too exhausted to pursue that conversation at the moment.

            “C’mon, Dean,” he said heavily, drawing his brother’s attention away from the growing inferno before him.

            * * * * *

            The Impala shuddered as it rumbled to life, jarring Layla awake. She blinked quickly in the unexpectedly bright light. Between the pain all over her body and the wall of flames she could see out the window, she almost started to wonder whether she’d died after all and been greeted with a serious dose of cosmic irony. As the Impala reversed in the yard and drove away from the house, she took stock of events and carefully pushed herself up with a groan. She only managed to slide her head a few inches up the door panel before deciding the pain wasn’t worth it.

            “I need to get to my car,” Layla tried to speak, her voice little more than a croak.

            The Winchesters had both noticed when she woke and Sam had already retrieved a bottle of water from somewhere. He removed the cap and offered it to her with a worried expression.

            “You’re going to the hospital,” Dean said flatly.

            Layla gave Sam a small a grateful smile and took a sip of water before attempting to speak again. “After I get to my car.”

            Sam and Dean exchanged one of their coded looks.   Apparently, Sam won some silent argument as Dean fixed his gaze on the road ahead and Sam turned back to Layla.

            “That’s not a good idea…” he began.

            “I don’t care. If you guys don’t want to go, I understand. Just drop me somewhere where I know where the hell I am.”

            Sam let her finish before he continued with what he had been saying, “…that’s not a good idea until Forbes gets things cleared up. He’s gonna bring your stuff to you when things die down.”

            Layla looked chagrined and sank back down onto the seat, “Sorry. I just have…some important stuff,” she finished lamely.

            One side of Sam’s mouth quirked into a forgiving smile, “Don’t worry about it. It should be about an hour to the hospital in the next county. Are you gonna be alright until then?”

            “Yeah. Thanks,” she looked from Sam to the rearview and was not completely surprised to see Dean watching her reflection. He smirked when she caught his gaze.

            “Congratulations, by the way.”

            “Huh?” Layla’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What did I miss?”

            “You, Layla Parker, are officially deceased. Or at least, Agent Jett is, burnt beyond recognition. Willis and Gills too. Turns out we were all cult members.”

            Layla managed a small grunt of laughter, “Damn. I liked that identity.”

            “I’ve been meaning to ask about that…” Sam said, trailing off to let her answer the unspoken question if she chose.

            “What can I say?” she grinned. “I love rock and roll.”

            Dean laughed and caught his brother’s eye approvingly. Sam couldn’t help but laugh as well, more at his brother’s look of appreciation than anything else.

            “Well, put another dime in the jukebox,” Dean said, still laughing as he flipped on the radio and accelerated back onto the two-lane blacktop that led out of town.

            * * * * *

            The parking lot of the hospital was nearly empty at this time of the morning. Although she would never admit it, Layla was grateful for Dean’s hand on her arm as she climbed from the car. Dean hovered near her as she made her way inside, arm cradled gingerly against her side.

            Sam had gone in ahead of them and met them now at the door, pushing a vacant wheelchair. Both of the brothers had changed out of their blood-spattered dress shirts and discarded them. For the moment, they had been replaced with plain black t-shirts from the trunk of the Impala

            Layla stopped in her tracks and scowled at the wheelchair, “You’re kidding, right?”

            Sam looked almost offended by her refusal, mouth working silently for a moment. He looked to his brother for support.

            Dean cleared his throat awkwardly, “You know, they’ll probably make you use one inside anyway…”

            “Then they can make me. My legs aren’t broken for fuck’s sake,” she grumbled and stepped around Sam and the wheelchair. She knew they were both trying to help but she couldn’t resist shying from their attention. She was used to hunting solo and for the most part that meant crawling off to lick her wounds alone when she was injured. She had survived by being extremely careful about who she trusted, about who she let see past the composed exterior she displayed. Now, however, she was too tired to hide it, the pain severe and disorienting. Part of her wanted to trust these guys, they seemed to genuinely care, but that was all the more reason not to let them close.

            After speaking briefly with the receptionist, they took a seat in the waiting room. Republican propaganda droned on a wall-mounted TV and Layla pretended to fixate on that, trying to distract herself from the pain, the exhaustion and the two concerned, handsome faces that were watching her. Dean sank carefully into the seat next to her, propping his elbows on his knees and leaning forward on them. He set the clipboard that the receptionist had given him on his lap.

            “Can I get you anything?” Sam asked, trying persistently to be helpful in his annoyingly endearing fashion. Layla sighed heavily and forced herself to swallow the snide remark that had been her first reaction.

            “A coffee would be amazing.”

            Sam smiled and disappeared into the hall. Layla stretched her legs out, crossing her ankles as she settled back to wait, head propped on the wall. Dean leaned back beside her and fidgeted impatiently, drumming the pen on the clipboard.

            “Michelle Ness,” Layla said.

            “Huh?” Dean stopped tapping the pen.

            “My name. You should write it down.”

            “Oh. Yeah.” Dean started filling out the form, entering in the information that Layla rattled off. A nurse arrived as they were finishing up and escorted her into a small triage room. Dean followed wordlessly without invitation but Layla didn’t protest. She sat where prompted, Dean lingering over her.

            “So what happened to you, sweetie?” the nurse asked kindly as she unrolled a blood-pressure cuff.

            “Car wreck,” Dean blurted out.

            “It wasn’t a car, honey.” A car accident would mean police reports and too many questions. Layla rolled her eyes and smiled at the nurse. “I just rolled our ATV driving down to the barn. I’m such a klutz.” She caught Dean’s eye warningly.  As she spoke with the nurse, Layla’s accent changed completely, now perfectly mirroring the local rural drawl. “Don’t mind him. He just tends to overreact.”

            Dean grinned and shrugged, resting a hand lightly on Layla’s shoulder, “I just can’t stand seeing you hurt, sweetness. I shouldn’t have let you drive that thing.”

            Layla caught the mischievous glint in his eye and scowled at him when the nurse turned her back and began typing into her console.

            The nurse asked a few more questions about her injuries and Layla responded without blinking: a handlebar to the ribs, arm pinned under the four-wheeler. Dean seemed to enjoy himself, playing into the role of the overly conscientious boyfriend which Layla had thrust upon him. Layla was certain that he was simply enjoying tormenting her but it kept her mind off of her arm and kept her awake.

            Layla’s vital signs were checked quickly and she was sent back out to the waiting room again with an icepack when none of her injuries were ruled as life-threatening. Sam was seated there when they entered, three coffees on the table in front of him.

            “Forbes checked in. He said things are looking okay for now but it’s probably going to be a couple days before he can get your car back,” he remarked as the other two settled across from him.

            Layla nodded wordlessly, her face pale and lips drawn with pain and exhaustion. Dean looked to his brother, frustration evident on his features.  Sam shook his head slightly as if he could read Dean’s train of thought, warning his brother not to make a scene. Dean exhaled heavily as he sank into the chair beside Layla, grabbing two of the cups and extending one to her. She smiled wanly and took a sip.

            “Do you know where you’re headed after this?” Sam inquired casually, trying to keep Layla distracted and awake.

            “No clue. Wherever the next job is,” she mumbled, nursing the coffee gingerly.

            “You have somewhere to rest up for a while?” Dean asked.

            “Yeah.” A long pause stretched out on the tail of Layla’s answer as the brothers waited for her to elaborate. The Winchesters exchanged questioning looks and Layla followed the interaction in perplexity.

            “What?” she asked in confusion, a deep crease furrowing in her brow as she tried to force her brain to function through the fog that engulfed it.

            “Are you going to tell us where?” Dean asked.

            “No.”

            Dean’s head jerked back as if she had slapped him and he glanced at Sam who also looked slightly wounded by the blatant refusal.

            “Rude,” Dean grumbled as he recovered.

            Layla sighed heavily. “No offense but I barely know you guys. I’m not handing out information on any bolt-holes I might have.”

            She knew she should be handling this better, with some tact and gratitude – and she was grateful – but under the assault of fatigue and stress, she didn’t have the energy to even contemplate resisting the instinct to curl in on herself. Kinsey always joked she was like a tortoise, firmly closing her shell behind her when threatened and resisting any attempt to lure out a vulnerable portion.

            When Dean began to protest further, Sam cut him off with a quick look. Dean scowled at him; he couldn’t explain it but the idea of Layla not trusting them galled him more than he knew it should. He tried to dismiss it as a symptom of his own stress but the feeling continued to gnaw at him and he crossed his arms, sinking back sullenly.

            “I get it,” Sam said evenly. He was obviously a quick learner; already he was avoiding the soothing tone that had grated on Layla’s nerves earlier. “You don’t know us and it’s smart to be cautious but we’re just trying to help.”

            “And I appreciate it but I…”

            “Michelle Ness?”

            A voice from the doorway interrupted Layla’s reply and she began to rise unsteadily. Dean stood first and supported her with a gentle hand under her arm. Before she realized it, her body overrode her inhibitions and she slumped against his frame wearily. Dean glanced down in surprise and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He dug the keys of the Impala from his pocket with the other hand and tossed them to Sam. Sam snatched the keys from the air and nodded his understanding.

            “I’ll go get us set up at a motel. Call me when you’re wrapping up.”

            Dean inclined his head in thanks and walked with Layla through the doors to the ER. Sam remained seated for a moment, watching the way Layla let her head rest on Dean’s shoulder. He couldn’t help noticing how comfortable she seemed for someone who supposedly didn’t trust them. The observation tugged the corners of his mouth down in a thoughtful frown. Dean, at least, was easy to read and, under normal circumstances, Sam would have been glad for what he witnessed there. He sighed heavily and stood, shaking his hair back from his face as he headed for the exit.

_Why did this have to happen now?_

* * * * *

            Layla spent most of the day being shuffled around the hospital. The pain medication let the day slide by in a blur as she drifted in and out of consciousness, dozing off whenever they stopped poking at her for a few minutes. And every time she opened her eyes, there was Dean, talking with nurses or doctors, flipping through magazines or just waiting silently but never far from her bedside, the one exception being when the nurses insisted she put on a gown and Layla had banned him from the room. He had conceded without argument but with exaggerated dismay.

            When the doctor slid aside her robe to examine her torso, Layla was surprised to see Dean turn his back. She didn’t notice, however, the blurry reflection that was visible in the gleaming metal of a paper towel dispenser on the wall. The bowed surface presented an image about as erotic as a Picasso painting but Dean smiled slightly to himself as his imagination filled in the details. And this way he didn’t have to see the bruise he had created or the pain on her face as the doctor gave her ribs a series of exploratory prods.

            After numerous X-rays and consultations, the doctors set and casted her forearm (broken radius and ulna), gave her a sling to support her elbow (severe sprain), and tightly bound her torso to keep it somewhat rigid (two cracked ribs). A few butterfly closures were sufficient to close the slice on her cheek but she still felt swaddled head to toe by the time they released her.

            “I feel like the bride of the mummy,” Layla grumbled as Dean pushed her wheelchair out of the hospital and towards the Impala. She hadn’t really gotten any rest and the meds and lack of sleep were making her giddy. Sam was waiting beside the Impala, leaning against the hood. He had cleaned up while he was away and was now wearing blue jeans and sneakers, a black t-shirt and a gray button-down flannel with the sleeves rolled up. Layla saw the corner of his mouth twitching as he tried not to smirk at the sight of the wheelchair.

            “Not a word, Sam. Not one fucking word,” she glared at him playfully as he helped her from the chair. She had thought Dean was strong but Sam lifted her to her feet like she was a child.

            She noted with surprise that Sam guided her to the front seat of the Impala and folded himself into the back. That was all she had time to notice before she leaned her head against the seat and promptly fell asleep.

* * * * *

            Sam kicked the door of their motel room shut behind them. The Winchesters had settled Layla into a single room next to their own. Sam had already unloaded the essentials from the trunk of the Impala and Dean walked briskly to where his duffel lay on the far bed.

            “I need a shower,” Dean said as he began digging clean clothes from his bag.

            Sam watched his hurried movements from the corner of his eye as he sat at the small table where his laptop was already sitting open.

            “She’s not dying, Dean. I think she’ll be alright on her own for a little while,” Sam said casually as he logged onto the computer.

            “What?” Dean asked distractedly, pausing at the door of the bathroom.

            “Layla,” Sam repeated, “She’s alright.”

            “I’d say she’s pretty far from alright, Sam,” Dean frowned.

            “You know what I mean.”

            “No, I don’t. And I don’t think you get it. It’s my fault, Sam. I did that…or I let it happen. Whatever. Same thing.”

            “We did the best we could with what we knew, Dean. You can’t beat yourself up.”

            Dean chuckled half-heartedly, “Better me than other people.” The bathroom door closed on the heel of his words.  Sam shook his head and looked back at the computer screen. He opened his email and began sifting through his inbox.

            Dean emerged less than ten minutes later, clean but unshaven, his hair disheveled. He was once again wearing the standard uniform of jeans, black t-shirt, and plaid flannel button-down, this one a dark blue; the battered amulet hung on the black cord around his neck as always.

            He tossed his dirty clothes and dress shoes into a corner and sank onto the bed. Sam frowned slightly at the carelessly discarded clothing as Dean grabbed a pair of socks and began putting on his boots quickly.

            “So did Bobby say anything else when you checked in?” Dean asked, knowing Sam would have consulted with the other hunter at some point during the day. He sounded hesitant, as if he didn’t really want to know. However, given their luck with mysterious women lately, women like Bela and Ruby and Meg, it was only sensible to be wary.

            “Other than that we’re idjits?” Sam said, trying to lighten his brother’s mood.

            Dean allowed a small smile, “Yeah. That part’s obvious.”

            “He had a few stories, most we’ve heard. Seems like she tends to mostly work out west, almost always works alone…but there are a couple things. Nothing really ominous, just…patterns.”

            Dean finished tying off his laces and sat up, hands on his knees, expression impatient. “Patterns like…?”

            “Like no one seems to know her, not really. Only a couple hunters had even heard of “Layla Parker” so Bobby called around. He had some people like Ellen do some asking about someone with her description, with her skills. He got back a lot of stories with different names that seem to match her and how she works.”

            “So?” Dean asked flatly, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt.

            Sam shrugged. “It just seems strange. I know hunters are secretive but she’s even secretive with other hunters.”

            Dean scoffed. “So she’s cautious. Maybe she has trust issues. I bet they all say she’s good at her job too. So what?”

            “When you look at all the stories together, you see a pattern. Layla has a specialty, a special interest…in demons. Or maybe they have a special interest in her.”

            Dean didn’t react for a long moment as he processed the information. “That could mean anything.” He gestured vaguely as he listed off possibilities. “It could be a grudge. Maybe they’re why she’s in the game. Maybe she’s just good at reading the signs.”

            Sam shrugged again, mouth turned downwards in a noncommittal frown. “Could be and probably is but it’s something worth knowing…especially considering what Resheph said about plans for all of us. If nothing else, she could be a good ally, maybe help us with your deal.”

            Dean inhaled slowly, carefully wiping any reaction from his face. So Sam _had_ noticed. He shook his head and rose to his feet. His voice was monotone and Sam could tell he was struggling to control it as he spoke.

            “No. We’re not dragging her into that. It’s too late now. I know what the demons have planned for me and their plans for you died with Yellow Eyes.” Dean started for the door, pointedly not waiting for Sam to argue as he snatched his wallet and keys from the bedside stand. He wished he was as convinced of that last part as he had sounded. He wished he hadn’t said the first part at all.    “We’ll just get her on her feet. Then she can take care of herself if she’s such a pro,” Dean said gruffly as he closed the door behind him, shutting it a bit harder than he had intended.

            Sam couldn’t help but notice that it sounded like Dean was trying to reassure himself with that statement.  

            * * * * *

            Layla sat stiffly in the low chair in the corner of her room, leaning back in an attempt to keep her torso straight, her left arm on her stomach. No matter how she moved, it seemed the damned thing insisted on resting against her ribs. At least the Percoset was keeping the pain down to a faraway, fuzzy annoyance at the moment. On her empty stomach, it was also doing interesting things with her perceptions and mood.

            She clenched her teeth impatiently as she listened to the phone ringing in her ear. At last, Kinsey’s voice sounded on the other end of the line. Layla was surprised at the tide of relief that washed over her at the sound of the woman’s distinctive voice.

            Kinsey’s accent was based in the urban cadence that she had acquired growing up on the south side of Chicago and the clipped, clear pattern of speech that came from working law enforcement on those same streets; both were now softened on the edges by the rural twang that she’d acquired from over a decade living the country life. And it was like music to Layla’s extremely stressed ears. She would never admit it but as the pain ebbed away behind the drugs and fatigue, the turmoil of the last few days and the vulnerable position she was in now were finally sinking in, leaving her shaken and uncertain. Kinsey was the closest thing she had to family and the sound of her voice, even as she answered in a scolding tone, seemed to instantly ground Layla’s whirling mind. Kinsey, at least, was a constant.

            “Damn it, Layla. I was starting to worry! Don’t you fucking scare me like that, girl. I’m liable to have a heart attack.” 

            “Bullshit, Kinsey. You’ll outlive us all. Death wouldn’t want you correcting him all the time.” Layla’s voice was rough, not quite slurring but definitely bearing the groggy drawl of someone not operating at full capacity. She took a sip from the bottle of water Sam had left for her. Although it soothed her parched throat, it wasn’t going to help much.

            Dead air filled with distant, mechanical echoes rang through the line and Layla knew Kinsey was carefully dissecting everything that she had just heard. Layla had never met anyone who could read people as well as Kinsey and she knew how she thought.

            In person, Kinsey could read body language like it was sign language. On the phone, Kinsey would pick apart a sentence down to the word, the tone of voice, the timbre, the pitch, the inflection, the words used, the words not used, the syntax, the context; then she’d somehow build those pieces into what you were actually thinking but hadn’t wanted to say. And if she knew you, it was even worse. It should have been absolutely terrifying to someone like Layla but what was more, it was indispensable. In a way, it freed Layla to be herself because there was no point in trying to hide who she was. It was probably why Kinsey was the only person Layla trusted. In addition to being loyal, stubborn and tough as nails, Kinsey could spot a bull-shitter a mile away. Layla had learned that the instant they’d met down in Missouri.

            Finally, Kinsey spoke, her voice cheerful for the moment as she responded to what Layla had said. “Someone needs to correct the old bastard. Death’s always taking good people young and bloody and letting monsters and murderers die clean and easy on silk sheets. It’s disorderly. He’s not doing it right.”

            Layla chuckled, taking further comfort in Kinsey’s unchanging determination to impose justice upon chaos.

            “So what happened, Layla? And don’t you leave out a damn thing,” Kinsey continued before Layla could speak, her tone compassionate but stern. It was a mannerism that had served her well patrolling the streets and Layla couldn’t help but smirk to be talked to like some young thug.

            Layla took a deep breath and rushed through the events of the last two days. She stuck to a simple walkthrough of the facts and kept an eye on the clock as she hurried through the complicated series of events, mishaps and misunderstandings. She knew it was only a matter of time before one of the brothers would be back to check on her. She heard the rumble of water surging through the pipes in the wall between their rooms. Hopefully the Winchesters would take their time cleaning up before checking in on her. A shower did sound amazing at the moment but the logistics in her current state were beyond what her exhausted brain wanted to contemplate.

            Kinsey only interrupted a few times for clarification on specific points. There was another pause at the end of Layla’s tale as Kinsey mulled the information over.

            “So you brought something pretty back to your room after all,” Kinsey remarked at last.

            Layla blinked in surprise. She’d been expecting theories on the demon’s plans, information on the Winchesters, maybe information on Resheph, probably even a scolding for getting herself injured. She hadn’t been expecting that. She cleared her throat and tried to speak evenly, feigning complete ignorance.

            “What d’you mean?”

            Kinsey chuckled, “Layla, you might lie to yourself but you can’t lie to me. You better jump on that Winchester boy while you got the chance.”

            Layla paused. She knew there was no point in arguing even if she didn’t agree. She tried planting a detour instead:

            “What about the rumors? You know the ones I’m talking about.”

            “Don’t give me that. You’re the last one to care what people say or to trust it. And you know as well I do that for every bad thing you hear about those boys, there’s five more folks who’ll line up to swear by ‘em. They’ve saved a lot of people, including you now.”

            “I don’t mix with hunters, Kinsey, you know that. I’m too close to these guys already.”

            “Exactly.”

            “What do you mean ‘exactly’?” Layla asked in a perturbed tone.

            “You said it: you’re too close already. You can protest all you want about what you ‘don’t do’ but it don’t change what you did. You’re already tied up with them. You just don’t want to admit it.”

            Layla could hear the knowing smirk on Kinsey’s face. She scowled across the empty room. She might have gotten tangled in their lives momentarily but that was all it was….wasn’t it?

            She sighed and let her head fall back, staring up at the ceiling. “So what are you proposing I do?”

            “Maybe you just relax for a while, maybe even allow yourself the possibility of a little happiness.”

            Layla chuckled but it quickly faded off into a groan. “This isn’t the story of ‘How Layla Got her Groove Back,’ Kinsey.”

            “Why not? This Dean guy sounds like as good place to start looking as any. And he sounds interested.” If it had been anyone else, Layla would have been shocked to hear that analysis of her carefully worded report of events. Layla wasn’t sure either of those things was true but she wasn’t sure they weren’t either; the fact that Kinsey thought that they were definitely lent credence to the supposition.

            This was definitely more than she wanted to contemplate in her current, foggy state. A brief memory of the feel of Dean’s arm around her, the firm strength of his torso as she hand leaned against him, sent a shiver through her. She forced herself to ignore it and continued adamantly.

            “And what about what Resheph said, that there were plans for all of us?”

            “All the more reason to find out what they know. Maybe they can help you find out what you’ve been asking for ages. Maybe they’re looking for the same thing. Just give it a shot, Layla. If they wanted you dead or injured or abducted or whatever you’re afraid of, they would have done it. They had plenty of chances.”

            “Maybe I’m just afraid of them talking to the wrong people,” Layla muttered.

            Kinsey sighed dramatically.

            “Layla, you may be smart but be human for once. Take a chance. Have some fun. They can only tell what you let them know.”

            A knock at the door cut off Layla’s intended response.

            “I’ll think about it, Kinsey, when I can think at all. I gotta go. Just ask around for me, only reliable sources. I’ll check back tomorrow. ”

            “I’ll see what I can do. Now take care of yourself,” Kinsey inflected her voice to allow multiple implications to hang on that order.

            Layla hung up the phone and pushed herself to her feet slowly.   She tried to straighten her back and compose herself as she crossed the room but her ribs protested adamantly and she let her shoulders slump with a defeated sigh. She peered through the peephole and saw Dean, hands in his pockets, green eyes scanning the parking lot absently.   He looked freshly scrubbed and his hair was still wet from the shower, sticking up in spiky clumps. Layla found herself lingering for a moment on what Kinsey had been saying. She stepped back from the door and took a moment to look at her reflection in the mirror mounted on the wall nearby.

            Her dark hair hung in lank strands around her face, which was forming interesting mottled patterns of black and blue and yellow as the bruises spread and merged with the circles under her eyes. And of course, she was still wearing the stupid button down shirt with the one stupid sleeve that she hadn’t thought to have Dean remove when he cut off the other. Not that she had any clothes to change into; everything she owned had been in her car or the motel room. Even her damn wallet had been in her jacket. The butterfly sutures over the cut on her cheek and the ridiculous bright blue of the cheap sling provided by the hospital perfected her ensemble of misery. She started to raise her hands to at least pull her hair back with the elastic she always kept on her wrist but a jolt of pain in her elbow made her reconsider.

            She shook her head with another heavy sigh and dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter anyway. She never mixed with much of anyone for more than a few days; she especially didn’t mix with hunters, who tended to be a lot of suspicious bastards with the annoying tendency of remembering details and looking for patterns.

            _Damn it, Kinsey. This is your fault. You’ve got me checking my reflection like it’s prom night…I assume. Not that I would know._

Layla unlatched the deadbolt just as another series of knocks sounded on the door, slightly louder, slightly more insistent. If a knock could sound worried, this one did.

            She pulled the door open and started back towards the bed, gesturing Dean inside behind her. He slipped in and closed the door gently as if afraid the noise might hurt her somehow.

            Layla sank onto the edge of the bed and Dean took a seat in the chair under the window opposite her. He looked her over silently for a long moment.   Layla thought she saw a hint of regret flicker in the depths of his eyes as he surveyed the bruises. Then he met her gaze and the look was gone as if it had never existed, whisked behind the puckish grin she was coming to think of as his trademark.

            “I see you’re feeling better,” he said in an amused tone as he noted all the little hints that her meds had kicked in.

            “I’ll give doctors one thing: they have the best drugs with no demonic additives,” Layla chuckled and Dean smiled in response.

            Layla pivoted carefully and lifted her legs onto the bed. She started to reach behind her for the pillows but Dean leaned forward out of the chair quickly and stacked them against the headboard behind her. As he bent over her, reaching past to prop up the pillows, Layla noticed for the first time the light spattering of freckles across his cheeks and the laugh lines that creased the corners of his eyes. She also noted for the first time that he too was developing a black eye, presumably from being tossed into the shelf back at the warehouse. She couldn’t help but think it only added to his rakish charm.  Beneath the smell of cheap motel soap, Dean smelled of clean cotton and just a hint of some musky scent.  

            Layla blinked away that train of thought. She gave him a smile of gratitude but couldn’t resist teasing him. She had to say something to distract herself from his proximity and all the things it was making her think.

            “You’re fussing again,” she muttered playfully.

            “And that was you bitching again,” he responded with a smirk.

            Dean waited until Layla had made herself comfortable then stepped back and fell again into the chair he had vacated. Layla reached for the TV remote on the night stand but didn’t press any of the buttons, fidgeting with it in her lap as a long silence filled the room. Layla stared mutely at the remote as she tumbled it in her hand; Dean glanced awkwardly around the room, taking in the tacky, faux-country décor.

            “I guess I should say tha-…” Layla began.

            “I just wanted to say sor-…” Dean started to speak at the same instant and they both stumbled to a halt.

            “You first,” Dean said, trying to sound gracious but in truth more than glad to postpone his turn.

            “I…” Layla cleared her throat and started again, “I was just saying thanks. You…and Sam, you really went out on the line trusting me. I wouldn’t be here…I mean, alive if you hadn’t…so thanks,” she laughed uncomfortably as she trailed off. “Someone needs to invent more words. Somehow “thanks” just doesn’t seem appropriate for life-saving.” She glanced up at Dean through the locks of hair hiding her face. He looked upset and shook his head stubbornly.

            “You shouldn’t thank me. I almost got you killed. Hell, I almost killed you…”

            “You almost _tried_ to kill me,” she interjected with a cocky grin, tucking her hair behind her ear. “It’s completely different.”

            Dean regarded her with a faintly startled expression, a smile slowly creeping across his face. He shook his head slowly in amazement.

            “I guess we could just call it even,” Layla offered playfully. “I’m feeling generous for some reason. Must be the drugs.”

            “Yeah…” Dean cleared his throat, his mouth quirking back into a crooked grin. “Yeah. Sounds fair.” He leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands between his knees. “You need anything?”

            Layla’s stomach twisted in response to the question, reminding her that it was subsisting on water and pain medication. “I would kill for a cheeseburger…like the size of my head.”

            “As you wish,” Dean grinned and reached toward the wall that joined their rooms, thumping his fist on it heavily. A few moments later, they both heard the door to the other room close heavily and a tall shadow crossed in front of her window. A quick, annoyed knock sounded on the door and Dean called out, “It’s open.”

            Layla shot Dean a quick glare before the door opened, whispering: “You’re horrible.”

            He shrugged impishly then settled his features into a guileless mask as Sam entered. Sam’s expression was less amused and Layla couldn’t help but notice the exaggerated patience with which he looked to his brother, as if he was putting up with something he normally wouldn’t.

            “Hey, Sammy. You hungry?” Dean inquired innocently.

            Sam sighed heavily, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His tone was resigned as he spoke, “What do you want?”

            “The usual but make it two,” Dean started to reach for his wallet but Sam waved away the offer. Dean withdrew the keys from his front pocket instead and tossed them to Sam. The brothers traded another series of their coded looks and Layla rolled her eyes, flipping on the television rather than trying to decipher whatever silent argument these guys were having this time.

            “Thanks, Sam,” Layla said to cut through the tension. Although she kept her eyes fixed on the television set as she flipped through the channels, she saw him smile from the corner of her eye.

            “No problem,” he said, giving Dean one last unamused look before heading out to the car. The Impala rumbled to life outside a few seconds later and the headlights chased shadows across her wall as he exited the lot.

            Dean turned his chair to face the TV, sliding it next to the bed. He kicked his feet up on the mattress next to Layla’s and reclined, folding his hands behind his head.

            “So what are we watching?”

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually managed to get ahead so I have good news! I'm going to be moving the release of new chapters to Friday nights so you can have the weekend to enjoy them. Thanks for reading. There's so much more to come.


	9. Swapping Stories - Coming Clean - Something Worth Knowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shedding your layers can be difficult when you're this guarded but sometimes that's just how it goes.

* * * * *

            “So then this Bela bitch gets away with over 70 grand in scratch-offs? How the hell did she manage that one?” Layla asked before popping another fry in her mouth. The white Styrofoam carryout box rested in her lap on the bed; the brothers sat at the table by the window with their meals. A show about African wildlife muttered to itself on the television, forgotten by the room’s occupants.

            Sam, who had been the butt of most of the jokes while Dean recounted the story of the cursed rabbit’s foot, suddenly beamed triumphantly at this brother.

            “Dean left them in his jacket,” Sam’s smile grew in proportion to Dean’s scowl, “which he took off and set on a gravestone. That’s how she grabbed ‘em.”

            “Hey, you didn’t see her take them either,” Dean grumbled around a mouthful of the cheeseburger he leveled accusingly at Sam.

            “I was a little busy being shot, Dean. What’s your excuse?” Sam asked with a laugh.

            “Excuse me if my brother being shot was a little distracting,” Dean countered.

            “Damn. She’s good,” Layla commented casually. She continued when the brothers looked to her in surprise. “Oh. I’m not complimenting the sleight of hand that snagged your lotto tickets. That sounds pretty easy in the circumstances. I’m talking about the fact that you guys are still arguing about it.”

            Sam and Dean glanced at each other meaningfully and this time Layla could read the bulk of the message, if not the specifics.

            “That wasn’t the last time you ran into her…or the last thing she took, was it?”

            Sam fell silent and began pushing around the leftovers of his salad listlessly. Dean frowned and dropped the remnants of his burger back into the tray, brushing the crumbs from his hands. “Let’s just say she’s got a gun for me and I’ve got a bullet for her.”

            Layla raised one eyebrow questioningly but didn’t ask. There was obviously a much bigger story there, one they didn’t seem eager to share. She elected to change the subject.

            “So you guys have another job lined up yet?”

            There was another silent exchange of meaningful glances between the Winchesters.

 _Don’t these guys ever just say anything_? Layla thought impatiently.

            “Nothing concrete yet,” Dean said, flashing his stunning, impish smile. “Looks like you’re stuck with us for now.”

            Sam laughed as he began clearing the trash from the table, “Hasn’t she been through enough, Dean?” Dean threw a french-fry at his brother in response but Sam caught it in midair and deposited it with the rest of the trash.

            As the food settled in her stomach, it sapped the last of Layla’s energy and she set aside the rest of her meal. Settling back against the pillows, she listened to the brothers bickering playfully as they cleared the mess. There was something comforting about their teasing and the warm, good-natured tone of family in their joking banter. Layla’s eyes drifted closed. Their voices began to melt in with the stodgy British narration on the TV and both faded away into a warm background buzz that was the last thing she remembered.

            Dean turned back to Layla first and noticed her sleeping. He stood and regarded her thoughtfully, slipping his hands into his pockets. Sam deposited the last of the trash in the bin by the door and turned. He smiled sadly when he saw his brother’s wistful expression, then sighed heavily and opened the door.

            The sound of the door creaking open made Dean turn, his expression slightly embarrassed, as if worried that his brother might have been able to read his thoughts on his face.

            “I..uh…” Dean rubbed a hand across his jaw and let it hang wearily from the back of his neck, “I’m gonna stay here…for a little while. Just in case….” He grinned and pointed at the TV as he continued in a hushed voice, “..and look, there’s cheetahs. Cheetahs are awesome.” He casually nudged the chair back into its position beside Layla’s bed and sank into it, eyes fixed on the documentary. He avoided looking at his brother’s knowing expression as he grabbed the food Layla had set aside and moved it to the table.

            One corner of Sam’s mouth twitched into a smile and he nodded, letting himself out wordlessly. As he returned to their room and prepared for bed, Sam went over the events of the last few days in his mind, replaying his brother’s words, his reactions. There was no denying it, even if Dean was trying to. This was exactly what Dean needed, exactly what Sam always wanted for him…but Sam also knew Dean would never let himself get involved now, not with the contract hanging over his head.

            Any inkling of sympathy Sam might have had for Bela vanished in a fiery rush of anger and disgust. She had stolen their only hope of saving Dean, in every possible way; her actions would kill him, send him to the pit…and now, on top of everything, what time he had left, Dean would spend in misery, sacrificing his chance at happiness to protect Layla from pain. And there would be pain, if Sam was any judge, but it was already too late to keep that attachment from forming. Layla might be guarded but Sam was used to living with Dean; he had plenty of experience reading what people weren’t saying. By the looks of things, Dean wasn’t the only one in denial.

            He exhaled roughly as he sank onto the mattress, hands under his head as he stared at the ceiling. The fire in his chest cooled, leaving a cold steel lump of renewed resolve. Dean was _not_ going to die. He was _definitely not_ going to die without telling Layla how he felt.

            Sam wasn’t sure which of those things was going to be more difficult to arrange.        

* * * * *

            Layla struggled blearily into wakefulness; a strong, rough hand was on her shoulder, shaking her lightly. She recoiled from the touch before she was completely awake and a shock of pain in her arm quickly cleared the last shreds of slumber from her mind.

            “Hey…hey,” a soft voice drew her attention to the chair beside the bed, “Layla…you good?”

            An infomercial about kitchenware was rambling on the television set. By the wan light exuded by the TV, Layla could barely make out Dean’s concerned features, one hand still extended in a soothing motion. He too was blinking in the glare of the television and Layla could tell that he had just woken as well.

            She inhaled, her breath shaking, and she pushed herself up slowly. She pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping that her hand and the dim lighting would hide the embarrassed flush that colored her cheeks. She closed her eyes tightly for a long moment, trying to force the lingering visions from her mind: the dead boy on the concrete, the battered, bleeding face of a homeless man, the knife in her hands and the dirty gutter coursing with blood. She always thought the nightmares were gone…till they happened again.

            “I’m good. Sorry,” she murmured, knowing already why he would have woken her. Her heart was still hammering inside her chest and she knew it wasn’t from being woken suddenly. “Was it bad?”

            Dean’s look of concern was little assuaged by her assurance but he let his hand fall hesitantly.

            “Depends on your definition of bad,” he smiled gently and Layla groaned, raising her hand to grip her brow between her thumb and forefinger. She hid her eyes behind her hand but Dean still easily read her flustered embarrassment.

            “Now you’re pitying me,” Layla grumbled in exasperation.

            “I’m not …”

            “Yes. You are. Just don’t. Don’t pity me,” she spat the word ‘pity’ as if it were the most disgusting word to ever leave her mouth and let her hand fall into her lap. “It’s not a big deal.”

            “I know.”

            Layla looked down at her hands in order to avoid his gaze. When she saw that her hand was trembling, she clenched it into a fist.

            “Look,” Dean started hesitantly then plowed ahead, “it really wasn’t a big deal. I just thought you might hurt yourself…more. We all have our thing, right?”

            Layla shook her head in confusion as she reached for the bottle of water and her meds on the bedside table. “What are you talking about?” She dumped out a couple of the pills and swallowed them.

            “Us. Hunters. This line of work doesn’t attract people without…a past,” Dean said, choosing his words with deliberation.

            Fuck. How much had he heard? How much had she _said_?

            Layla looked back up slowly. Dean’s expression was one of sympathy and concern but it wasn’t pity. It was a look of understanding with no condescension or judgement. His patient demeanor drew her in and leeched the tension from her muscles.

            “Everyone has a past, not just hunters,” she said with a smirk. Taking that for the assurance he had been seeking, Dean mirrored her smile as he replied:

            “Ours are more interesting.”

            Layla nodded and swung her legs slowly off the bed. She straightened stiffly, groaning as every muscle chose to weigh in as painfully against the decision.

            “That’s an understatement.” She ran a hand down her face then winced and pulled away sharply as it contacted the cut on her cheek.

            “Fuck!” she hissed and prodded the cut carefully to see if she had loosened the bandages. She sighed and pushed her hair back from her face. “Ugh…I feel disgusting. I would kill for a shower but I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

            “I …uh…” Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I could help…”

            “I’m sure you would,” Layla accused playfully.

            “I mean with the bandages and stuff,” he said indignantly. “I can be a gentleman.”

            Layla gave him a conciliatory smile, “I’m kidding, Winchester. I know what you meant. You think I could borrow something clean to sleep in?”

            He scratched his head as he stood, “I’ve got some t-shirts.”

            “Perfect. And a pair of boxers?”

            Dean laughed and headed for the door, “Sure thing.”

            Layla pushed herself up from the bed, using the arm of the chair for leverage. Nestled in corner of the cushions, Dean’s flask lay forgotten. That was just the cure for nightmares. She grabbed it, unscrewed the cap and took a couple quick belts. She replaced the cap and set it on the table then eased her way towards the bathroom. Layla slid the sling from around her neck, grimacing as she slowly let her arm straighten. She frowned at her pale, discolored reflection in the bathroom mirror and turned her back to it, leaning wearily against the countertop.

            Layla had already removed her shoes when she first arrived at the motel; she pried her socks off now with her toes. She carefully tested and found she could move the fingers of her left hand a bit, if painfully, and she fumbled with the buttons at the bottom of her shirt. After the first three, her left arm began to spasm and she let it fall. She winced and cursed at the stinging ache that shot through her elbow when she forgot to let the limb down slowly.

            Layla forced a couple deep breaths through clenched teeth then began tugging at her belt. She managed to remove that, at least, with one hand. She tossed it in the corner with a frustrated motion and unfastened the clips that held the elastic bandage around her stomach just as she heard the door to her room close again.

            She inhaled slowly, trying to steady her nerves and ignore the fact that her pulse had shot through the roof. This was bad, just bad. She was too tangled up already. But this…this was nothing, she tried to reassure herself. He was just being helpful, comrades-in-arms type of thing. It wasn’t like they were showering together. She felt another rush of blood color her cheeks at the mental image that accompanied that thought just as Dean tapped on the frame of the open bathroom door. He stood around the corner out of sight, waiting for permission to enter.

            Layla’s brow rose in surprise. She certainly hadn’t expected that; he seemed almost bashful.

            “It’s fine,” she said. Dean entered and deposited a small stack of clothes on the counter beside her. Layla noticed that there was a small pile of other supplies on top: a small hairbrush, a travelling kit with toothpaste and a folding toothbrush, some generic women’s deodorant. They had all obviously been recently purchased at a convenience store but Layla couldn’t resist.

            She picked up the bright pink deodorant and looked at Dean with a jokingly accusing look, “You guys just carry this around? Cross-dressers or man-whores?”

            Dean laughed, “Sam thought you’d need some stuff till we get yours back.”

            “Uh-huh.” She dropped the deodorant back on the clothes and leaned back on the counter. “I notice you didn’t deny either.” She picked up the hairbrush and began picking at her tangled locks distractedly.

            “Definitely not cross-dressers…” Dean stepped in front of her, green eyes flashing mischievously.

            “And I’m guessing it depends on your definition of man-whore,” Layla pursed her lips in a crooked, teasing smirk.

            Dean dropped his jaw in mock offense. “I’m hurt.”

            “Because I’m right,” Layla snorted. “I’m not judging, Winchester. We all have our… thing.”

            “I’m hurt,” he repeated playfully, “that you would think that of Sam. He’s a good kid. And I’m not a whore. I don’t get paid.” He plastered on an air of exaggerated charm, trailing the back of one finger under her jaw teasingly. “I’m a connoisseur. I know how to properly appreciate a thing of beauty.”

            Layla burst into laughter, gripping her side. Most of the pain had faded as the pills kicked in and the bourbon helped her ignore the rest.  “Has that line ever worked for you?”

            Dean laughed, dropping the fake playboy demeanor, “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never tried it. I definitely won’t now.”

            As the laughter faded, Layla set down the brush and gestured impotently towards the buttons of her shirt and the end of the bandage hanging from her waist. “That was as far as I got but I can…” she mumbled, her face flushing again with embarrassment. God, she hated feeling vulnerable.

            The corner of Dean’s lips twitched into a smile and he reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Relax. I’ll take care of it. No more jokes.”

            Layla found herself mirroring his expression and she bit her lip to disguise it, afraid it would spread into a giddy smile. “You forgot your flask, by the way. I set it on the table. How about a couple shots to make this less awkward?”

            Dean chuckled and retrieved the flask from the other room but hesitated as he handed it to her, “You sure you want that with your meds?”

            She took a moment to assess the terror level of the impending activities then nodded vehemently, “Want? Dunno. Need? Yes.”

            He released the flask into her hands with a laugh. Layla’s fingers brushed his lightly and she shivered at the electric charge that seemed to run up her arm and down her spine. Dean glanced up sharply and caught her eye, making Layla wonder if he had felt it too. She took a double shot from the flask and handed it back to him without replacing the lid.

            “Yeah. Maybe that is a good idea,” Dean said before taking a long drink and stowing the flask in his back pocket.

            “Alright, let’s get this over with.” Layla took a deep breath and leaned back again.

            “I’m definitely not used to hearing that,” Dean remarked as he knelt in front of her and began to unwrap the bandage from her waist gingerly, watching her reaction carefully.         

            Layla’s build was strong and muscular, something that came with the job if you wanted to survive for long, but she wasn’t particularly thin; her stomach wasn’t flat or rippling with muscles. She easily carried enough weight to hide her ribs and soften the curve of her hips. It didn’t hurt to have a little extra weight to throw around so long as you had the muscle to put behind it; moreover, a layer of padding could come in handy when your line of work occasionally might mean not eating for a few days but still required that you have energy available on demand to run from or wrestle with, for example, a hungry werewolf. She’d never really felt self-conscious about it before; she never really cared what anyone thought before, at least not in recent memory.

            She fixed her gaze firmly on the far wall as Dean unwound the bandage and set it aside on the counter. He started to reach for the next button on her shirt but paused and brushed aside the panel that hung open, tracing his fingers lightly over a series of parallel scars that crossed her stomach. Layla shivered again at his touch and caught his hand, wincing at a flare of discomfort in her ribs as she pulled away, eyes averted.

            Dean stood and she released his hand but he leaned down to intersect her line of sight.

            “Hey. It doesn’t matter,” he said softly as he resumed unbuttoning her shirt tentatively. A small, humiliated voice in the back of Layla’s mind screamed at her to look away but Dean pointedly kept his eyes locked on hers. His hands followed the seam upwards until her shirt fell open.

            Layla stepped towards the shower so her back was to Dean and shrugged out of the mangled shirt with his help. At the base of her neck, just low enough to be hidden by the collars of most shirts, was the familiar black pentacle of an anti-possession tattoo. Dean couldn’t resist brushing his fingertips across it lightly as he pulled down her collar. He thought he heard Layla inhale sharply; he definitely felt the tremor that ran down her spine.

            She managed to unbutton her pants without assistance but nearly doubled over with the pain in her ribs when she tried to shimmy out of them. Dean stepped to her side and caught her right arm for support, sliding the pants down far enough for her to step out of them.  

            Despite his best efforts to keep Layla distracted and laughing, Dean could tell she was still uncomfortable with the situation. This was definitely not how he would want this to go so he endeavored to make her feel as relaxed as possible, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. Okay…maybe he had taken a moment to appreciate the smooth muscles of her back and the contours of her hips…but he was only human after all. He noticed that the scars on her stomach were far from the only ones; some thin, some jagged, there wasn’t a limb that was unmarred in some way, her shoulder blade even bearing mottled patch that looked like a burn scar. He tried not to notice but he found his eyes lingering on them curiously, admiringly. Each one was like a splash of color, forming a harsh contrast that made her beauty that much more striking in his eyes.

            He shook off the thought and reached past her, twisting the knobs of the bathtub until the water reached a comfortably warm temperature.

            “Just keep your cast dry,” he said as he pulled the curtain closed. “Climb in then turn on the shower.”

            Dean stepped behind her once more. He rested his hand on her back lightly for a moment so as not to startle her when he unfastened the hooks on her black bra. Layla folded her right arm over her breasts to keep the garment in place. Dean noticed that she was trembling slightly, uncharacteristically silent, not throwing out the sarcastic barbs that he already recognized as her default setting. He wished he knew some way to comfort her but as nervous as she was, he did know that any uninvited touch, any word, could make it worse. Best to just continue as if this was all normal because, sure, Dean was always helping sexy, mysterious, dangerous women shower ….platonically. Just another Thursday.

            Dean snapped out of his reverie and realized his fingers hovered a hair’s breadth from her skin. He wanted desperately to touch her again, to let his hands explore her body and feel every inch of her. Layla glanced over her shoulder and he pulled his hand away sharply, rubbing his jaw innocently and shoving the other into his pocket. Layla gave Dean a nervous smile as she stepped into the tub, “Thanks.”

            She had a hard time resisting the urge to laugh at Dean’s expression as he nodded slightly. If he fought any harder to keep his eyes level, Layla was sure he was going to rupture something. She held her bra in place until she had climbed into the shower and Dean had closed the curtain again behind her. She pulled off the bra and tossed it out of the shower then slid out of the black cotton underwear and tossed them out as well.

            Layla aimed the shower nozzle towards her feet and pulled the tab, carefully angling her body to keep the spray away from her cast. Dean’s shadow moved across the curtain and his hand appeared near the faucet, holding a washrag. She took it and thanked him again. She slipped under the flow of water and sighed heavily, the remaining tension beginning to wash away with the dirt and blood. The heat oozed blissfully into her aching muscles and the fact that she had to keep her left arm over her head only slightly ruined her moment of relaxation. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to keep her arm there long so she began fumbling with the soap and rag.

            “You all set in there?” Dean asked.

            “Yeah. I think I got everything I need,” Layla lied, completely unsure how she was going to manage the maneuvers necessary to shower.

            There was another flicker as Dean’s shadow crossed in front of the shower curtain then retreated to the door. “I put a towel where you can reach it. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” He didn’t wait for her to respond before retreating through the door and closing it behind him. He exhaled deeply once he was safely on the other side then walked to the edge of the bed. The infomercial about blenders was still droning on the television and he sank onto the end of the bed, forcing himself to concentrate on that.

            “Blenders,” Dean muttered to himself as he pulled out his flask again and took a sip. “Just think about blenders.”

            In the shower, Layla managed to scrub herself down and even wash her hair one-handed while only ingesting what was _probably_ a safe amount of shampoo, having substituted her teeth for a hand while opening the tiny bottle. She definitely did _not_ think about the warm heat of Dean’s hand on her back as he had helped her undress.

            She turned off the water reluctantly and threw back the curtain, fumbling for the towel that hung beside the shower. She dried off as well as she was able given a torso that resisted bending and one unusable arm that screamed in protest at every tiny movement. Wrapped in the towel, Layla scrubbed the lingering taste of shampoo from her mouth with the toothbrush and toothpaste that Sam had provided. Dean was sweet, but thank God, Sam was practical.

            Getting dressed was an amazingly complicated and graceless maneuver that required sitting on the edge of the tub to pull on the gray plaid boxers and a motion that resembled diving headfirst into the black t-shirt. Layla surveyed the results in the mirror. It wasn’t much of an improvement but she was still quite proud of herself for managing it alone.

            As that thought crossed her mind, it was quickly followed by the realization that the whiskey and her pain medication were definitely making her a little loopy. She shrugged lopsidedly at her reflection, deciding it was a fair trade for keeping the aches away. She wrestled with the sling, trying to untangle the strap and turn it right-side-out. Just as her foggy brain was starting to believe the damn thing was actually a Mobius strip, she managed to sort it out and slide her arm into it with minimal discomfort.

            Layla grabbed the hair brush and a fresh towel then exited the bathroom. A lamp beside the bed was now emitting a dull, orange glow and Dean was once again seated in the chair beside it, legs kicked out casually and eyes fixed determinedly on the TV set. He had apparently folded back the blankets for her at some point; the pillows also looked freshly stacked and plumped. Layla noticed the infomercial still playing on the television and looked at him questioningly.

            “Really, Winchester? Blenders?”

            He shrugged innocently and took another sip from his flask before extending it to her with a tantalizing shake of the contents.

            “Seven speeds _and_ a lifetime warranty.” He didn’t move his gaze from the display of blending prowess about which an elderly couple was shouting jubilantly.

            “That bad, huh?” she smiled to see a hint of red touch his cheeks, barely visible in the dim lighting.

            “There wasn’t any baseball on,” he muttered, still not glancing in her direction.

            Layla chuckled and walked around to his side of the bed. She took the flask, gesturing with it towards the blankets arranged so neatly and invitingly.

            “If I break both arms do I get a trail of rose petals too?” Layla asked playfully.

            She could tell Dean responded automatically, the words blurted out in a cocky tone before he even knew they were coming:

            “No. Just ask.” Dean clenched his eyes shut as if willing the words to be unspoken.

            Layla froze. She could feel the heat in her cheeks and she was glad he wasn’t looking. She forced a nervous laugh and took a sip from the flask, “Very funny, Winchester.”

            “Yeah. Funny,” Dean said, gratefully accepting the escape route she offered. He opened his eyes and she handed him the flask. Deciding that he’d definitely had enough for the moment, Dean closed it and set it aside.

            Dean grabbed the remote from the bedside stand, trying to distract himself. There was something undefinable about the sight of her in his oversized shirt, long legs exposed by the boxer shorts, dark strands of wet hair framing a face that still wore that cocky, lopsided grin despite the cuts, bruises and awkward situations. What was stirring was more than the mindless hunger of lust; it was a surge of something protective and more than a little possessive, something stronger and deeper, familiar and yet terrifyingly new. And when he forced it to heel and ordered it to silence, it thrashed and gnawed at his insides.

            Layla sank onto the bed, folding one leg beneath her. She laid the items she was carrying on the bed beside her.

            “Crap,” she muttered distractedly with a frown.

            “What?” Dean looked towards her for the first time since she had entered the room.         

            “I just forgot that stupid bandage for my ribs in there,” she shrugged one shoulder. “I probably don’t need it anyway.”

            “Nope. You’re wearing it,” Dean said flatly with a shake of his head and pushed himself to his feet.

            “Still not the boss of me, Winchester,” Layla rolled her eyes and called after him as he ignored her and retrieved the stretchy sports bandage from the bathroom counter.

            Dean returned and lowered himself to one knee in front of her, coiling the bandage as he gestured to her torso, “Lift your shirt.”

            “You’re definitely the first guy to get on one knee before asking that,” Layla joked uncomfortably. Even though he had already seen her far more exposed, she rolled the fabric up self-consciously, gathering it in one hand so it was held snug under her breasts.

            Although Dean tried to keep a carefully blank mask on his features, Layla could still read his discomfort at seeing the large purple bruise which covered most of the left side of her ribs; it was already larger than his fist and would only spread over the next couple days. As Dean leaned forward to loop the bandage around her back, Layla saw him inhale to speak and she cut him off, wagging her finger at him warningly:

            “So help me, Winchester, if you apologize one more time, I’m gonna smack you upside your head.”

            He glanced up at her in surprise and laughed, adopting a hurt and guileless air, “What’re you talking about? Why would I apologize?”

            As he began to pull the first few loops of fabric tight around her ribs, Dean reached out and straightened her back with the gentle pressure of his palm on her side. Layla gasped softly at the unexpected heat of his hand on her waist and he glanced up apologetically, mistaking it for a sign that the motion had hurt her.

            “Sorry,” he hissed reflexively.

            Layla’s good hand darted out and flipped him amiably on the back of his head, enough to startle but not enough to hurt. Dean jumped slightly and looked at her in confusion and exaggeratedly injured pride.

            “Damnit, Winchester. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Layla smirked, giving him a teasing glare of challenge.

            “I guess I deserve that.”

            “Is that another apology? ‘Cause it sounded like an apology,” Layla accused; then she _giggled_. Her eyes widened in horror and she covered her mouth quickly in a vain attempt to stifle the giddy and slightly intoxicated sound. The whiskey had given her a warm, happy buzz and the pain meds had provided a fuzzy, drifting feeling that was not unpleasant; it was definitely better than the alternative, she reflected with lightheaded amusement.

            Dean laughed as he leaned forward again to finish wrapping the second half of the bandage around her ribs. Layla found herself dwelling distractedly on how ridiculously green his eyes were and how stupidly white his teeth were and how insanely soft his lips…Layla shook her head woozily and averted her eyes, praying that he wouldn’t notice the rush of blood to her cheeks which that string of thoughts had elicited.

            As Dean finished binding her ribs a few moments later, he caught her eye and shot a questioning look, making sure she was prepared for him to pull the bandage tight. Layla nodded and he tugged at the fabric gently but firmly, holding it tight as he clipped it in place. When Layla inhaled sharply through clenched teeth, Dean winced in sympathy but refrained from apologizing. Once he was satisfied that the metal clips were secure, Dean lowered her shirt and began to rise. Some portion of Layla’s resolve melted beneath the vaguely sad/guilty expression he was trying to disguise and she reached forward to stop his ascent.

            “Thank you,” Layla murmured as she rested her hand lightly along his jaw.

            Dean went absolutely still except for his eyes, which tracked towards hers almost timidly. Layla smiled gratefully and held his gaze. Trying to cast the moment perfectly in her memory, she bent forward and pressed her lips lightly to his stubbled cheek. This close, beneath the smell of whiskey and soap and the various chemicals with which people coat themselves, Layla could make out Dean’s distinctive scent, the earthy musk of his skin and hair. She felt a spark ignite in her chest and she was intensely grateful that she had resisted the urge to kiss him on the lips.

            _You’d never get away if you got that close_ , commented the tiny imperious voice in the back of her mind; Layla knew it was right.

            Dean struggled to control the rush of warmth that flowed over him. It was as if her touch hypnotized, her eyes entranced and the caress of her lips against his skin had stunned him. He shook his head slowly as she straightened and let her hand fall away from his face. A grin slowly quirked up one corner of his mouth and he rubbed a hand over his hair as he exhaled heavily.

            “You’re welcome,” he responded belatedly and pushed himself to his feet only to collapse again into the chair beside the bed.     

            Layla arranged the towel around her shoulders and began absently rubbing some of the moisture from her hair. Eventually, she picked up the hairbrush and began to pick carefully at the damp, tangled strands, wincing with the jarring motion of each tug.

            Dean rose from the chair and moved to sit beside her, taking the brush from her hand wordlessly. Layla hesitated before releasing it then obediently turned her back to him. For having such rough, scarred hands, Dean was surprisingly gentle as he smoothed her tangled locks. After a few moments, Layla found her eyes drifting closed and she was wavering where she sat.

            “You’re going to put me to sleep,” Layla protested meekly in a trance-like tone. Layla felt the towel slide from her shoulders and the mattress shift as Dean moved closer and set the brush aside. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder and pulled her back lightly.

            “Good. You act like you’re allergic to it,” he replied and Layla could hear the soft smile in his voice. She let herself sink against his chest, her eyes drifting closed.

            “Not allergic. Just don’t like it,” she mumbled groggily.

            Dean flashed back to the moment he had woken earlier to her muffled cries, the look of fear on her face as she tried to struggle in her sleep. He didn’t need to ask why she didn’t like it. He wanted desperately to comfort her, to wrap his arms around her but knew that would only cause her pain. Dean settled for stroking her hair long after the strands lay smooth as silk. When her breathing began to slow he slipped away, easing her back onto the pillows.

            As she stretched back, Layla winced and mumbled something incomprehensible, hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Dean slid her feet under the blankets and began to pull the covers over her. He sank into the chair beside the bed and folded the blankets back from her face. Layla’s eyes didn’t open but she smiled slightly and leaned her cheek against his hand when it brushed her face.   Her hand slipped from under the blankets and captured his. Dean hesitated for a moment then entwined his fingers with hers. When it became apparent that Layla wasn’t going to release his hand even in sleep, Dean settled back in the chair, carefully repositioning Layla’s hand so he could drape his arm onto the bed without bending his elbow the opposite direction.

            A sad, wistful smile spread slowly across Dean’s features. He didn’t remember the last time he just held hands with a woman…or if he ever had, come to think of it. He certainly didn’t remember ever feeling so fulfilled by something so trivial. Hell, he wasn’t this content after his most nihilistic nights of debauchery. Too bad it had to end here.

            He shifted his eyes to the TV and tried to make his attention follow. He had to stop thinking about the woman who clung to his hand as if holding on for life, about the soft touch of her lips. The thoughts and feelings percolating up to the surface of his mind had no place in what time he had left, not that he deserved them anyway.

            “Blenders,” he repeated, “Just think about blenders.”

* * * * *

            The sound of the motel room door closing jolted Sam awake. He quickly recognized Dean’s familiar silhouette as he crossed the room. The thin line of light visible around the curtains carried the muted, grey quality of pre-dawn and a glance at the clock confirmed it: 5:42 a.m.

            Sam glanced over at the other bed where the blankets still lay undisturbed. The bathroom light flared and Sam could make out Dean’s mussed hair and sleepless look.         “Seriously, Dean? How did you even…” Sam rubbed at his eyes, trying to wipe the sleep from his brain.

            “What?” Dean asked, sticking his head back out of the bathroom door. There was the sound of the sink running and Sam waited for his brother to turn it off before repeating himself. Dean walked back into the room. He gave his brother an impatient look and waved his loaded toothbrush, making it obvious he was waiting to answer before proceeding with his oral hygiene.

            “You…and Layla…how?” Sam stammered as he sat up and threw back his blankets. “I mean she was really beat up…and really out of it…” He pushed his hair back from his face and examined his brothers rumpled, disheveled appearance and distinctive ear-to-ear “Just Back from Happy Town” grin. He trailed off as a disturbing thought crossed his mind and he shot his brother a concerned, questioning look, his voice dropping to a disgusted whisper:

            “Dean…she was conscious, wasn’t she?”

            “Ew! God, dude. Fuck you for even thinking that,” Dean glared at his brother for a moment, appalled that Sam would think him capable of such a thing. The same thought occurred to Sam a moment later as his gears began to build up steam. Now that his waking mind had fully processed the thought, he knew it wasn’t even a possibility. Sam grimaced apologetically, rubbing his hands down his face.

            “Sorry. You’re right. I’m still kind of asleep over here.”

            Dean hesitated, eyes narrowed at his brother. When he decided the apology seemed sincere and Sam was feeling suitably ashamed of himself, he finally spoke:

            “Not that it’s any of your business,” he brandished his toothbrush menacingly, “but nothing happened. I fell asleep in the chair watching infomercials.” Dean rolled his neck at the reminder, trying to work out the crick he’d developed, then began scrubbing industriously at his teeth in an attempt to end the conversation. He paced back into the bathroom and Sam heard the sink running again.

            Sam leaned forward on his knees, hazel eyes narrowed against the glare of the bathroom light. He couldn’t help thinking that his brother’s mannerisms didn’t match his claims about a “nothing happened” kind of night. He waited for the sink to stop running then heard a short burst from a spray can and the tapping of a razor against the sink. Sam spoke just loud enough for his brother to hear in the other room.

            “You just…watched infomercials together?” he dropped the words at pointedly disbelieving intervals.

            “Mostly I watched infomercials. Mostly she slept.” Dean said impatiently. “Why do you care?”

            “I don’t. It’s just…” Sam faltered. It was way too early in the morning to face a conversation of this magnitude; he knew how Dean would react to the suggestion and he was not awake enough for arguing. “…it’s nothing.” Sam grabbed his jeans from the chair by the bed and slid them on as he stood. He retrieved his laptop from the dresser and carried it to the table. Once it was warmed up, he logged in and began scanning through various flagged news stories.

            Dean emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, rubbing a towel over his jaw. The giddy grin he’d been wearing earlier was gone, replaced with a pensive, perturbed expression.

            “I think you were right, Sam….about the demons,” Dean said, tossing the towel onto the countertop absently.

            Sam cocked his head, brow furrowed inquisitively; obviously it couldn’t have been anything too bad or his brother wouldn’t be telling him like this. “What do you mean? Did she say something?”

            Dean shook his head and glanced at his brother hesitantly. Sam could see him wrestling with a decision but at last Dean sighed and walked across the room. He sank into the chair opposite his brother and spoke in a hushed tone; it was obvious he felt guilty for what he was about to reveal, “It’s probably nothing but she was having this nightmare, kept crying out “no” over and over.” He rolled his hand through the air as if trying to draw out the right words to convey he’d witnessed. “I was asleep, like dead to the world asleep, and it was bad enough to wake me up in the chair beside her. I’m surprised it didn’t wake you up over here.”

            Sam waited cautiously, knowing that there had to be more. “What’s that got to do with demons?”

            Dean sighed and let his hand fall to the table, “Hopefully nothing but I swear the first thing I heard, the thing that actually woke me up, was her saying “they’re coming.””

            Sam frowned, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he regarded his older brother.

            “She could have been talking about anything, Dean. Are you sure that’s even what you heard?”

            Dean nodded his head slowly, one corner of his mouth curling into a mirthless smile as he tried to dismiss the sinking feeling that was gathering in his stomach. “She was scared, Sam, _really_ scared and less than 48 hours ago she literally stared down a shotgun without flinching. What scares someone like that? Something tells me she wasn’t talking about the in-laws coming to dinner.” Dean didn’t want to say that there was something familiar about the way Layla had tossed and turned, something he thought he’d seen before; hell, he didn’t even want to think it, not when his contract was running out and Bela was in the winds with the Colt.

            “That’s not a lot to go on, Dean.” Sam said doubtfully, trying to dissuade his brother from fixating on the issue. “It could mean anything. It could be a childhood memory for all we know.”

            “Could be and probably is but it’s something worth knowing…especially considering what Resheph said about plans for us,” Dean quoted Sam’s own words from the night before back to him.

            Sam sighed and only rolled his eyes slightly. “Fine. You’re right. It’s worth knowing. So we get her on her feet, like you said, and in the meantime, we just talk. Find out her story, what she knows.”

            Dean nodded in agreement but he had a far off look in his eye, gaze fixed on some point behind his brother. “Right. We just… talk.” He blinked away whatever he had been thinking and looked back at Sam.

            “You hungry? I’m hungry,” Dean said with a grin, casually dismissing the conversation. He rose and looked at his brother impatiently. “C’mon, Sam. I can’t talk on an empty stomach.”

            Sam rolled his eyes as he pushed away from the table, “I’m amazed you can think on an empty stomach.”

            “Only for a little while so let’s get to a diner,” Dean said jokingly and hurried his brother from the room.

* * * * *


	10. - Blueberry Pancakes - Everyone's an Expert - Out for a Drink -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast with Sam is a good distraction from the awkward night before. Better yet? A night out with Dean.

* * * * *

            Layla woke late in the morning when Sam tapped at the door and announced himself quietly. He had obviously been trying not to wake her but as the alcohol and medication left her system, her brain defaulted to its wary tendencies and snapped her awake. She quickly replayed what her ears had heard before her brain was functioning, recognized Sam’s voice and invited him in.

            As Sam let himself in with the spare key that Dean had “appropriated,” Layla pushed herself up with a groan. She rubbed her eyes blearily and glanced at the empty chair next to the bed, brow furrowing slightly. Her brain was piecing together a blurry version of the night before, her memories hazy and overshadowed by the turmoil of emotions, exhaustion, pain and, to be honest with herself, alcohol and medical grade pain killers.

            _Fucking hell, tell me I dreamt that last part. Tell me I did not hold hands with him like a fucking school girl._

Casual encounters were part of life for a hunter who wanted to stay relatively sane, especially when that hunter was determined to keep her attachments in life minimal. In Layla’s view, attachments were only weaknesses that could be exploited and patterns that could be read, all of which only put innocent people in danger.

            Layla wasn’t above a little sexual gratification, of course, and she would occasionally linger in a town for a few extra days in order to dally in someone’s company but it was never more than that, never more than a physical release. She never allowed it to be. She didn’t even remember the last lover who had known the name Layla. She tried not to remember them that long in general, just a slideshow of mental snapshots.

            She quickly cleared the thoughts from her mind, worried that some inkling might display itself on her features. Painting on an innocent smile, she looked up to Sam, who was extending her yet another white Styrofoam carryout container.

            “Blueberry pancakes?” he offered. He sounded both hopeful and concerned that she wouldn’t want them.

            Layla laughed and snatched them eagerly. “Sam Winchester. You keep this up and I’m going to be forced to marry you.” She set the tray on top of the blankets folded in her lap and popped it open happily.

            Sam was much easier to make blush than Dean and though his complexion was slightly darker, the flush that lit his cheeks was much more prominent. He chuckled awkwardly and sat at the table near her bed, digging through the plastic bag he was carrying in his other hand.

            “Water or juice?”

            “What kind?”

            “Apple?”

            “Juice me.”

            Sam started to hand Layla the bottle then paused to break the seal on the cap before extending it to her again.

            “Smart boy,” Layla grinned as she took a sip and set it aside.

            “I broke mine like that last year. I know how it is, especially at first,” Sam commented.

            “Yeah. It sucks but I get to collect signatures. You know where I can save anyone famous?” Layla asked mischievously. She picked up the plastic fork from inside the tray and began slicing her pancakes. Sam’s lips twitched with the effort of suppressing a smirk at the way Layla attacked the pancakes with an almost child-like delight.

            “I haven’t had these in…” Layla mumbled around a mouthful of pancake. She paused a moment to chew before she choked herself, holding up a hand to cover her mouth self-consciously. “…I honestly don’t remember when. Years.”

            “They were Dean’s idea actually,” Sam commented casually as he leaned back in the chair. He glanced briefly at the only other chair that the cheap motel room offered, one which had been conspicuously relocated next to her bed.

            Layla noticed the glance though she pretended not to. Sam could easily read her tell, however, when she began to pick distractedly at her food.

            “Huh. Well tell him I said thanks,” she paused long enough to take a mechanical bite. “Where’s he?”

            Sam laughed. “I think the technical term is “food coma.” Soon as we got back from the diner, he crashed. I guess the last few days caught up with him.”

            _Was that a hint of a suggestive grin?_

            Sam noticed that Layla didn’t look up as she responded evenly, “It’s been a long few days for all of us.”

            Sam nodded mutely and grabbed the remote from the table, gesturing towards the TV set. “You mind?”

            Layla shook her head, shoveling another forkful of food into her mouth in an attempt to let the conversation falter until another topic arose. Hopefully, the television would provide one.            Once she felt she had enough food in her stomach, she grabbed her pain meds and chased a couple with the apple juice.

            Sam turned on the TV and flipped through the channels until a local news show appeared. Sam paused as a headline about Satanic Cult Murder-Suicides Shocking the Heartland flashed across the screen. Layla almost choked on her pancakes but by the end of the report, she was almost choking with laughter. The story that was being reported may as well have been drawn directly from her doctored file and the names inserted like a “Fill in the Blanks” game. According to the reporter: there had been a satanic cult killing people in the area, the cult had been distributing a previously unknown opiate substance, the cult members drank blood and almost all of them had been found decapitated, including three individuals burnt beyond recognition but presumed to be the three cult members who had posed as FBI agents in order to coordinate the murders; the only exceptions were the apparent ringleaders, James and Don Korski, who had died in some strange murder/suicide-pact shooting at their warehouse. Two deputies, Meyers and Doyle, had been arrested for distributing confiscated narcotics to cult members.

            Most of the credit was being rightfully bestowed on Deputy Forbes but Layla couldn’t help but snort in derision when the reporter went on about “the tragic and heroic sacrifice of Sheriff Greer.” To hear the reporter tell it, you’d think he had thrown himself in front of a plane full of rabid terrorists armed with anthrax bombs and single-handedly saved freedom from the godless masses. Part of Layla, on the other hand, thought the demon might have been telling the truth about the twisted darkness behind Greer’s eyes. Other than losing his accent, Greer hadn’t seemed all that different after flashing the black eyes and Forbes had worked with him for years and not noticed the change. He must have always been a dick and some part of her hoped he really was the sadistic bastard that the demon said he was. In a way, the thought slightly assuaged the guilt of not saving him. Slightly.

            As the report ended and the broadcast reverted to a bunch of talking heads in the studio analyzing the contributing social factors from their limited (and 100% inaccurate) viewpoints, Sam turned the volume down and addressed Layla, letting them ramble in the background.

            “Looks like Forbes has it under control after all.”

            Layla shook her head in wide-eyed amazement, “You can say that again. I think that man’s got a future in politics. I don’t think I could have played it that well and I made the damn thing up.” Layla sounded slightly perturbed by that last point. She definitely had a competitive side and didn’t like the idea of someone being better than her at…well, being her.

            “Doesn’t sound like they’re looking for us but it’s still probably best to lay low for a few days,” Sam said.

            Layla gestured to her cast then to the mostly devoured pancakes that she had set aside sometime during the news report.

            “Hey. No arguments here. You guys keep bringing me breakfast in bed and we may just retire here.”

            Sam chuckled but the laugh trailed off thoughtfully. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

            “What?” Layla said as she settled back against her pillows again. The fuzzy, warm drifting feeling from the pain meds was returning and another wave of fatigue was welling up behind it. Layla had been injured enough to know the drill: the next two days would be the worst, throbbing, aching and exhausted as her body imposed martial law to prevent her brain from motivating her to do anything else stupid like getting another arm broken or another shotgun muzzle jabbed into her ribs. Pain, she reckoned, was the body’s defense mechanism against the mind’s self-destructive cravings. It explained a lot about a lot, especially about herself.

            “It’s weird to think about retiring, about giving up the life…don’t you think?” Sam explained. Although his posture was calm and casual, he gauged Layla’s reaction carefully as she answered.

            “I don’t think retirement comes with the gig. If so, no one told me about any 401(k) plan.” She paused thoughtfully and took a sip of juice. “I guess I assumed everyone in the life knew it when they got in…that it was a one way ticket. Don’t see how it _could_ be any other way.”

            Sam’s brow rose sharply. “Seriously? You don’t want any other kind of life?”

            “I don’t see where “want” comes into the equation. A lot of people want a lot of things, not all good, so it’s probably best we don’t get them.”

            Sam looked at her contemplatively and she could tell he was trying to decide something. Apparently, he conceded defeat because after a long interval, he asked bluntly, “So are you just resigned to dying or do you actually like this stuff?”

            “Oh, come on! What’s not to love? You’ve got the constant cycles of boredom in bad motel rooms alternating with gut-wrenching terror, constantly wandering like a nomad…a heavily armed nomad with trust issues …the diner food, the sleepless nights, losing friends…” she trailed off as Sam’s frown deepened. That had struck a nerve, time to back pedal.

            “Look. I do like it. I know it sounds fucked up but it’s the only place where I fit, where I do more good than harm. I didn’t mean you have to want to die to get this job. I meant…”

            Layla sighed heavily and massaged her forehead pensively. What had she meant?

            “It’s like this. People get into this for two reasons: one, they’re raised in it, like you and Dean, or two, something happens and they fight back. Either way, if you’re the type of person who looks evil in the eye, who recognizes it and goes running after it, you’re not gonna walk away. Things are gonna keep happening and you’re gonna keep fighting back because it’s who you are. Now, let’s say by some miracle, who you are changes completely and you can know what’s going on and go to sleep at night without doing a thing about it. What happens then?”

            Layla arched an eyebrow at Sam questioningly and he shrugged, letting her continue. He was definitely getting an interesting perspective of her, a startlingly familiar one at that.

            “What happens is that you try to build a normal life but all those nasty things are still out there, and every hunter worth his salt has made more than a few beasties mad in his…or her day. No one _wins_ them all; we’re just lucky enough to _survive_ them all…till we don’t. So one day, when you’re not expecting it, something’ll come for you, just when you think it’s all in the past. And hopefully it’s just you when that something comes…or maybe you have a family now, maybe kids?”

            Layla’s gaze had drifted away from Sam and was fixed on the wall opposite her. Sam thought he saw a hint of sorrow hidden deep in her eyes. She gave a resigned sigh and leaned her head back against the headboard, “It’s a nice daydream though.”

            Sam gave a short, shocked laugh of disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

            Layla returned the look of surprise, eyebrows knitted in confusion. “What?”

            “This whole brave soldier, resigned martyr act you’ve got going…how’s that working out for you?”

            “I’m still alive and mostly in one piece.” Layla smirked and wagged a finger at him, asking in a playfully accusing tone: “Is that your plan? Are you going to retire and become a counselor?”

            Sam chuckled. His whole face seemed to light up when he really let himself smile and Layla couldn’t resist the infectious grin.

            “I definitely don’t plan on doing this for the rest of my life,” he replied.

            Layla’s smile faltered and she sighed again. “Sam, you’re a good guy and that’s exactly why you won’t walk away. You can try but it’s always going to be at your heels. You wouldn’t let someone else get hurt because of you, not if you could stop it, would you?” Layla levelled an expectant stare at him, already knowing him well enough to predict his answer.

            Sam shook his head, lips pursed in a tense, thoughtful line. “So… what? You just spend the rest of your life fighting?”

            Layla nodded and shrugged one shoulder stiffly. “Until you can’t fight anymore, yeah.”

            She idly turned her gaze to the television, where the news was being rehashed, as she continued: “The only way out of this job is in pieces and if you’re lucky, they’re only physical ones. I’ve heard of hunters getting their minds… and souls ripped apart. I think dying clean is better.” Layla watched his reaction carefully from her peripheral vision, careful not to move her gaze from the TV. Sam didn’t seem to react to her statement but Layla couldn’t resist the thought that his expression was too blank, as if he had flicked off the switch on his emotions in response to her comment.

            “I don’t think those hunters chose what happened to them. No one chooses mental illness or…that kind of thing,” Sam purposefully avoided the topic of souls and hoped she didn’t notice.

            “True but from the way I hear it something worse than death always comes to the ones who can’t let go. They start messing with the dark stuff, maybe they think they’ll get the upper hand, fight fire with fire ….I don’t know. All I’m saying is that if you’re there when I die, Sam Winchester, you damn well better salt and burn me. I’m not sticking around to join the other team.”

            Sam clenched his jaw and stared into the distance thoughtfully. Her point of view definitely sounded familiar, although he’d never heard it expressed so eloquently. When she explained it, he could almost understand the fatalism. Hell, he almost agreed; at least, he had a hard time finding fault with her argument, especially after what had happened to Jess.

            He nodded grudgingly but pushed the dark thoughts aside, flashing her a cocky smile that Layla would have sworn he learned from his brother, “If I’m there, you’re not going to die. It won’t happen.”

            “How chivalrous,” Layla said with a laugh. She grabbed her covers and pulled them up cozily, or at least as cozily as the stiff, synthetic fabric allowed. “But I’m afraid that makes it you against the world then.”

            “That’s a little self-righteous isn’t it, thinking the whole world is trying to kill you?” Sam asked glibly.

            “Everything’s killing you. Time is killing you. Life is killing you. It’s a terminal condition, life. Hasn’t anyone explained this?”

            “Then why bother saving anyone?” Sam rejoined.

            Layla paused. Sensing the chink in her armor, Sam charged ahead:

            “If you really thought it was all pointless, you wouldn’t do what you do. Other people, normal people, they don’t live normal lives because they control everything that happens to them. They live normal lives because they _accept_ that they _can’t_ control everything. But they keep living and trying, knowing there are things out there that they can’t stop.”

            “So your argument is in favor of ignorance? At least as far as the supernatural goes, I think we all passed ignorance a few states back.”

            “Not ignorance,” Sam said, his tone becoming frustrated as he searched for the right way to phrase his thoughts. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. “It’s more like…” he hesitated, extending his hand in emphasis as he decided how to proceed, “…faith.”

            “Faith? No such thing. Faith’s just hope in a fancy hat.”

            “What’s wrong with hope?” Sam countered.

            “Nothing wrong with it but it’s about as useful as a wet noodle,” Layla pursed her lips thoughtfully then shook her head. “Correction: less useful if you’re hungry.”

            Sam sighed. God, she was as stubborn as Dean and twice as good at arguing; or maybe just twice as willing to debate philosophy.   Dean would have already ended the discussion with some gruffly dismissive phrase. Sam dropped his head dejectedly for a moment then shook his head and caught Layla in a piercing gaze.

            “Bullshit.”

            “What?” Layla laughed in surprise. She’d definitely been expecting a more expansive rebuttal.

            “I’m calling bullshit. If you didn’t believe you could make a difference, that what you did changed things for the better, you wouldn’t be a hunter. That’s hope and that’s how it’s useful. It makes people stronger; it makes them do amazing things; it even makes them willing to sacrifice everything for each other.” He grinned victoriously and leveled a challenging stare at her.

            Layla hesitated under Sam’s steady gaze, chewing the inside of her lip as she searched for an answer. She couldn’t say that being a hunter didn’t mean sacrificing everything without negating her previous argument and she couldn’t deny that believing in a better world did sound like hope.

            Sensing her uncertainty, Sam forged ahead, “And that’s what it’s all about: it’s about what we do for each other. We’re not meant to exist on our own. That’s where you were wrong again. It won’t be me against the world if the world comes to kill you. It’ll be me and Dean and Bobby Singer and a bunch of other hunters who would fight beside you if you’d let them…I mean, us.”

            Layla had heard the name Bobby Singer before, almost as much as she had heard the name Winchester, and usually in conjunction so she didn’t need to ask. She swallowed uncomfortably and averted her eyes from Sam’s. What was that all about? He sounded earnest and protective, as if he was making a personal request. And she really couldn’t find a flaw in what he was saying other than her own determination to remain unexposed to the possibility of loss.

            Layla forced an awkward laugh and raised her uninjured hand. “I surrender under protest. This is unfair. I demand a temporary ceasefire on this debate until such a time as I am no longer inebriated by pain medication,” she protested grumpily, sliding farther under her blankets.

            Sam laughed and reclined in the chair, plucking the remote from the table again.

            “Fair enough,” he said and began flipping through the channels, letting the conversation veer off into mundane topics. Eventually, the discussion ended completely as Layla dozed off again.

            Sam stood and tidied the room quietly, picking up the towel from where it had fallen on the floor the night before. He deposited the towel in the bathroom where he gathered her dirty clothes in the empty carryout bag then slipped quietly from the room, hanging the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle as he left.

            He’d definitely learned a thing or two about this mysterious hunter or, at least, what motivated her. Unfortunately, that meant he was realizing how formidable the task that he had set for himself really was.

            _Not like there’s a deadline or anything,_ Sam thought then immediately grimaced at his choice of phrasing.

* * * * *

            Layla woke later that afternoon feeling groggy and miserable. The massive disruption of her waking/resting cycles left her feeling like her head was stuffed with cotton balls. She hauled herself to her feet, slowly unraveling her muscles despite great protest from the constituency.

            She trudged to the bathroom and went through her daily ablutions only half a day late. As she brushed her teeth, she noticed idly that her dirty clothes were gone from where she’d left them scattered over the bathroom floor. She shrugged as she began to rinse away the toothpaste and looked up at her battered but cozy reflection, still clad in Dean’s black tee and grey boxers. She wasn’t planning on going anywhere anyway.

            After she’d finished making herself feel mostly human again, she walked to the chair by the bed and folded her legs beneath her. She stretched the phone across the bed, wrestled with the cord for a minute then dialed Kinsey’s number and waited for her to accept the collect call charges.

            _Collect calling, brought to you in the 21 st century by inmates and stranded hunters_, she thought just a tad bitterly, _at least it’s not both, this time_.

            She really hoped Forbes got all her phones back, especially the personal cell which had been in her jacket. She tried not to think about her laptop and other gear that had been in the room.

            At last, the other end of the line clicked mechanically a few times and Kinsey’s voice sounded through, “…-yla.”

            “What?”

            “I said you’re gonna bankrupt me, Layla. You know how much these damn calls cost now?”

            “No,” Layla admitted, grinning to herself. “Just bill it to the Department. Tell them I’m a security consultant.”

            “Ha ha,” Kinsey said wryly. “I’m pretty sure security consultants don’t call collect.”

            “Good point. So what’d you dig up for me?”

            “Nothing…or everything,” Kinsey said in a frustrated tone. “That’s the damn problem. Everyone seems to have a story or a theory about those boys. Most everyone I could find who’s actually worked with them say they’re good people, good to have at your back and damn good to have as friends…”

            “Most everyone?”

            “You remember that asshole, Gordon Walker?”

            Layla grimaced at the memory. She certainly did. She’d run into him on one of her early hunts, tracking the same vamp nest years before. They’d worked together for one night to clear the bloodsuckers and he’d been condescending and self-righteous. She was used to that, however; she got it all the time both as a hunter and in the guises of the various aliases she wore. There were still a lot of boys’ clubs in hunting circles.

            Layla and Gordon’s real falling out had come at the end when Gordon had decided he wanted to work out his issues on a catatonic vampire. His idea of “working out his issues” still turned Layla’s stomach when she brought the gory image to mind. The kid had been fresh turned too, barely even knew what it was. Layla wasn’t prone to pitying monsters but there was such a thing as professionalism. Gordon had taken exception to her executing the newbie vamp and ending his fun; they had barely parted ways without coming to blows.

            “Yeah, unfortunately. Why?”

            “I’m not sure. I didn’t get it straight from him, not that I would trust that twisted fucker. Apparently he’s had some run-ins with them, swears the younger brother, Sam…he swears he’s… fuck, I don’t know how to explain the shit I’ve heard in the last 12 hours,” Kinsey huffed, then gathered her thoughts and started over.

            “Look. It’s third-hand information but some of Gordon’s people are saying Sam’s on Hell’s side, or maybe he’s going to be but isn’t yet…apparently one guy even thinks he’s the anti-Christ.”

            Layla erupted in laughter at the thought and even the pain in her ribs couldn’t dissuade her amusement at the ridiculous proposal. Blueberry-pancake-Sam? Sam, who talked about faith and hope and remembered to buy her a toothbrush? Obviously, this person had never met Sam Winchester.

            “Sam? The anti-Christ? You’re fucking kidding,” Layla gasped around her painfully grunted laughter.

            “I didn’t say I believed it. The guy’s locked up now and he’s some hardcore religious nut too but he said they used some cursed object…a rabbit’s foot of all things…to get away,” Kinsey chuckled at the idea but Layla’s stomach twisted just a bit.

            “Rabbit’s foot?”

            “That’s what I heard.”

            Layla frowned; she knew this story…but the Winchesters hadn’t mentioned anything about hunters coming after Sam because they thought he was the anti-Christ. She was surprised at the rush of anger that the thought roused in her.

            “Wait. What do you mean they used it to get away? Get away from what?” she demanded.

            “Think about it, Layla. Those hunters didn’t want to shake his hand and say congratulations.”

            “Then fuck those guys, Kinsey. If there’s one thing I know from the last few days, Sam Winchester is not going Dark Side.”

            “Chill, Layla. I’m on your side, remember? I’m telling you what I heard. That’s all. Do I think it’s B.S.? Yes. But it’s also part of a pattern.”

            Layla relaxed slightly. She hadn’t meant to explode at Kinsey and she had surprised herself with the surge of protective outrage.

            “I know, Kinsey. Sorry.” Layla shoved her hair back out of her face, cradling the phone against her shoulder. “What pattern?”

            “Those boys…they’re wrapped up with something demonic. Now…don’t take it like that,” Kinsey cut Layla off as she inhaled to protest. “I’m not saying they work for the thing but I got back a lot of stories and most of ‘em are tied up with something big and bad. Not just about Sam, either. It looks like the whole family’s been hunting some big demon for years. Consensus seems to be that they found it and killed it but…things get muddled there. Everyone says something different. There’s lot of talk about them opening that Devil’s Gate, or maybe it was someone with them, or maybe they were trying to stop it. No one seems to agree. But I got back reports that Dean made a deal to save Sam. Hell, same person said that their dad made one too and that’s how he died but then someone else said he was at the Gate when it opened. Only thing I got for sure is that Bobby Singer knows the truth and Rufus says to trust him. He said he’s a bastard, but a trustworthy one.”

            Layla sat in silence as she tried to make some sense out of all the rumors, some of which she’d heard, some of which were new. If Rufus said this Bobby guy was legit, then he would be but how exactly did she broach the subject? Just call Bobby and say; ‘Hi. You don’t know me but I’d like to ask some uncomfortably incriminating questions about your friends. Do you have a minute?’

            How did she even get in touch with him except through the Winchesters?

            “If Rufus trusts Bobby and Bobby trusts the Winchesters, that says something on its own though, doesn’t it?” Layla asked but she was thinking aloud more than expecting a response.

            “Not a whole lot if trust is anything like a game of telephone,” Kinsey commented. “But, Layla, I’m not telling you not to trust them. I’m saying the opposite, use them…or each other. These guys are the only hunters I’ve heard of who have more experience with black-eyed bastards than you do. Even if you aren’t looking for the same answers, you might still find them on the same path, you get me?”

            Layla sighed and moved the phone to her hand, trying to roll out the cramp in her neck. “I got ya, Kinsey. I can’t say I’m gonna dive in but you’re right. They could be useful, an ‘enemy of my enemy is my friend’ type of thing.”

            “Sounded like a little more than friends, Layla. You got awfully defensive there. Is there something you need to tell me…in great detail, I hope?”

            “Not a thing,” Layla chuckled. She knew Kinsey would know she was lying but that was fine. If she thought some physical fun times had been had, then maybe she’d let it go. Not likely, though.

            “I’m very disappointed in you, young lady,” Kinsey laughed and Layla knew she wasn’t going to let it drop.

            Layla smirked, “I know, Kinsey. I should get my stuff back in a day or so then you can bawl me out in person. Deal?”

            Layla didn’t wait for Kinsey to agree, attempting instead to redirect the conversation: “Hey. You ever heard the name Bela Talbot?...or Bela Lugosi?”

            “Of course I’ve heard of Bela Lugosi. What kind of pain meds they got you on?”

            Layla rolled her eyes although she knew it was her own fault for not explaining. “Not the actor, Kinsey. It’s one of this Talbot girl’s aliases.”

            There was a brief pause on the line as Kinsey ran the name through her extensive memory banks.

            “Nope. Can’t say I have. Why? Who is she?”

            “She’s some high-scale hoodoo peddler with sticky fingers. You know the type: they know the life and try to profit from it.” Layla’s lip curled with disgust.

            “Mm-hmm,” Kinsey’s tone was equally disdainful. “It’s a good thing that type doesn’t tend to live very long.”

            “Apparently she has, which means she’s smart and good at covering her tracks, but I need you to put the word out, Kinsey. If anyone knows her or picks up her scent, they have to get the info to Bobby Singer or to you.” Layla knew that a lot more hunters knew how to get ahold of Bobby and Kinsey than either herself or the Winchesters. A thought occurred to her and Layla continued, “See if Rufus knows anything. Screw that B.S. about being retired. I know he’s still got his ear to the ground and he knows almost everyone who’s been in the game for a while. Tell him I’ll lift a case of Blue for him.”

            “Layla…” Kinsey’s tone was exasperated.

            Kinsey understood that hunters had to operate outside the law to some degree because there were no laws in existence to cover the situations they handled. That didn’t mean Kinsey appreciated what Layla liked to call her ‘practical approach to needs-based wealth redistribution.’

            Layla’s thoughts on the matter went something like this: “I need X. You have more than enough of X. If you annoy me with any douchebaggery and are foolish enough not to protect X well enough, X is now mine. Thank you for supporting your local monster hunter.” As local Sheriff, however, Kinsey was inclined to disapprove of this way of thinking, even though Layla was always sure to remain well-behaved in Kinsey’s neck of the woods. In the grand scheme of things, Kinsey figured that Layla did more good than harm and was inclined to turn a blind eye but she didn’t relish being reminded of her friend’s _laissez-faire_ attitude towards the law.

            “Did I say ‘lift’? I meant ‘purchase from a lawfully regulated liquor agency,’” Layla said innocently.

            “Uh-huh,” Kinsey said dubiously but let it slide for the moment. They both knew there was no point in repeating that argument.

            “So will you spread the word?”

            Kinsey sighed like a parent who has been guilted into allowing the kids stay up past their bedtime.

            “I’ll make sure it gets around but only if you unwind for once. You said you’ve still got at least a day. That’s plenty of time to curl up in bed with a Winchester…or two,” Kinsey said lasciviously then erupted into laughter.  

            “Very funny, Kinsey, but I still don’t mix with hunters. Not like that. Not that I could if I wanted. It’s surprising what a damper broken ribs can put on a party. You convinced me to work with them but that’s it. Take the win.”

            “You keep telling yourself that,” Kinsey retorted, “but I’m not taking half credit. You’ll see.”

            “Fine. I’ll see. Bye, Kinsey.” Layla said in a light tone of playful annoyance.

            Kinsey laughed so hard as she hung up that Layla frowned, wondering what was so funny and how she had missed the joke.

      * * * * *

            The afternoon sun managed to slip around the blinds and send a lance of blinding light directly into Dean’s eyes as he slept. He raised a hand to shield them and checked the time on his watch muzzily: 2:12 p.m. He rubbed his hands down his face and sat up, stretching expansively as he rose to his feet with a yawn. Scratching his head absently, he glanced around and noticed he was alone in the room. A quick peek out of the window told him that wherever Sam had gone, he’d taken the Impala.

            He shrugged and wandered over to the tiny coffee-maker that the room provided. Just as Dean flipped on the TV and sat on the edge of the bed to wait for the nectar of wakefulness to brew, Sam returned, carrying plastic bags in one hand and his duffel in the other.

            “Where were you?” Dean asked as his brother deposited the bags on his bed.

            “I needed to do laundry, did some shopping while it ran.”

            Dean glanced around quickly, frowning slightly when he saw his clothes from the day before still lying discarded in the corner. “Damn, couldn’t you have grabbed mine on the way? I think she’s wearing my last pair of clean boxers,” he grumbled.

            Sam scoffed. “Maybe I will, when you stop decorating the room with it.”

            Dean shrugged and tossed the remote aside. He poured himself a cup of coffee and walked over to his brother, peering curiously into the bags. “No offense but those clothes look a little small for you.”

            “Funny,” Sam said flatly and extended two bags to his brother, “That one’s got Layla’s old clothes in it, washed and dried. I got her size from those and the other bag’s got some new stuff, jeans and a t-shirt that probably fits.”

            “Why are you handing them to me?” Dean took the bags slowly, obviously not following his brother’s logic.

            “To give to Layla,” Sam said casually as he began arranging his own clothes in his duffel, folding them neatly and stowing them for travel.

            Dean glanced down at the bags and frowned thoughtfully, taking a cautious sip of the steaming coffee. He shook his head in exasperation as understanding dawned.  

            “I know what you’re doing, Sam.”

            “Yeah. I’m doing laundry.”

            “Bullshit,” Dean said, tossing the bags down on top of Sam’s unfolded clothes. Dean waited until his brother looked up at him. He held Sam’s gaze pointedly, expression serious and tone stern as he spoke, “I know what you’re doing,” he repeated, “…and just …don’t.” He spoke the last word more softly, almost imploringly.

            Sam averted his eyes first, calmly moving the shopping bags aside so he could resume folding his laundry.

            “I just think she might be able to help us… with your deal.”

            “We’re not telling her about that,” Dean said sharply, more sharply than he had intended. His stomach twisted at the thought of Layla knowing about his crossroads deal. He didn’t want her knowing that he’d made a deal with a demon at all; he could anticipate her disgust at the idea given their interaction at the warehouse. The idea of her getting involved, of possibly getting hurt or killed to help him, that was too much.

            Dean’s thoughts may as well have been displayed on a billboard as far as Sam was concerned. Sam sighed in frustration, shaking his hair out of his face as he turned to regard his brother.

            “Dean, be practical. She’s got experience with demons and you’ve seen her work now. She’s careful and she’s stayed under the radar for years. If nothing else, she could help us find Bela.”

            “No. If she finds Bela, she finds out about the deal. You know Bela will run her mouth if she gets cornered. If Layla finds out, she’ll get involved. You know she will.”

            “Is that so bad?”

            “Yes, Sam!” Dean hissed in annoyance as some of his coffee splashed over the edge of the small cup and onto his hand; he set the cheap cup aside before he crushed it distractedly and wiped his hand on the leg of his jeans. “You’ve seen what hellhounds do; you know we can’t stop them...”

            “Which is why we need the Colt…” Sam interjected but was cut off in turn.

            “...but Layla’s not going to get it for us. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s not the type to sit on the sidelines. Better she’s not there when…if we can’t stop the deal.”

            Sam sighed; he couldn’t argue with any of those statements. “Fine, Dean. I won’t say anything but, for the record, I think you’re wrong. I think you should tell her.”

            Dean dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. “Fine. Then I’m wrong. It’s not the first time, won’t be the last. As long as the record shows that she’s alive, I don’t give one fuck about being wrong.”          

      * * * * *

            Layla passed the next few hours channel surfing between documentaries and horror flicks; occasionally she would check the news for updates but nothing new or interesting came to light. When the sun had sunk low in the sky, the brothers came by to check on her again. The original Night of the Living Dead was playing on the small TV and a series of loud screams echoed through the room just as Sam and Dean walked in.        

            Dean glanced at the television as he entered, “I thought you were being murdered in here…good movie though.” He sat on the edge of the bed near the chair Layla occupied; he angled himself towards the movie, propping one knee up on the mattress.

            “Hey. That’s sexist,” Layla remarked drily, “I could have been murdering someone else.”

            Dean laughed. “You’re a little twisted, aren’t you?”

            “It’s been mentioned.”

            He smirked but kept his gaze fixed on the movie. Sam entered the room behind his brother and he took a seat in the chair opposite Dean.   He set two plastic bags on the table and Layla glanced from them to him curiously.

            “I washed your clothes,” he said distractedly. “There’s some new stuff in the other bag too.” Layla noticed that Sam didn’t bother trying to disguise the perturbed look that he shot at his brother; Dean however seemed completely unaware as he watched the black-and-white zombies lumbering across the TV screen.

            Layla dug into the bags and removed the straight-leg blue jeans and black T-shirt. She checked the size and they were a perfect fit, even if they weren’t exactly her first pick in style. Still, they were _jeans_ , real human, non-monkey-suit clothes. The novelty of her makeshift pajamas was quickly wearing off.  

            “Sam, you are amazing. Thanks. I’ll pay you guys back for everything.”

            He smiled and waved away the offer. “Don’t worry about it. Sorry about the farmer jeans. There weren’t a lot of options nearby.”

            “I’m not about to complain.” Layla laid the clothes back on the table for the moment. She cast a curious, furtive glance towards Dean but his posture and expression were completely neutral, betraying nothing of his thoughts.

            “So what’s the plan? Any word from Forbes?” Layla continued in a desperate attempt to disrupt the awkward silence that filled the space between the brothers.

            Sam glanced up quickly, “No, nothing yet.” He rose suddenly from his chair, fishing his phone from his pocket as he stood. “I should check on that. I’ll uh…be back in a few minutes.” Sam snapped open the phone and started flipping through his contacts as he headed for the door. Layla thought she saw Dean glare at him briefly from the corner of his eye. She cleared her throat uncomfortably as the door closed behind the younger Winchester.

            “That was…weird,” she said in confusion.

            “That’s my brother,” Dean smirked. Layla noticed that Dean’s smile didn’t reach his eyes; it was an easy tell to read once you knew what to look for.

            Whatever this was, whatever was going on between the brothers, it was none of her business, Layla reminded herself. She gathered her clothes, old and new, from the table in her good arm and headed towards the bathroom.

            “I’m gonna get dressed. If I don’t get out of this room, even just to go for a walk, I’m going to go crazy.”

            Getting dressed took twice the usual amount of time but Layla managed all of it, except fastening her bra, solo and with only a few mistakes that brought stabbing agony. She appraised her reflection in the mirror. The smaller black t-shirt definitely fit better but she frowned and poked at the seams of the blue jeans, which flared out stiffly over her hips.

            “Ugh. Mom jeans,” she mumbled and flexed her legs a few times, trying to work out the rigid creases. The sling was much less confusing when she was sober and she slid that back on with little difficulty. She walked back out of the bathroom; Dean was still sitting alone on the edge of her bed, watching a scene of two-tone carnage.

            “Could you give me a hand here?” Layla said as she turned her back to him and gestured helplessly towards where her bra should have been clipped.

            Dean chuckled as he realized her problem. He rose and walked up behind her, lifting the back of her shirt until he found the loose ends of her bra. Layla lowered her head, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face. She bit her lip and tried to ignore his touch across the bottom of her shoulder blades but the more she tried to clear her mind, the more it was there, invading her consciousness and teasing out her attention. Dean pulled the garment closed gently, careful not to jostle Layla’s injured ribs. Just before he let her shirt fall, they heard the motel room door creak open behind them.

            Dean turned and backed away quickly. Sam was standing halfway through the doorway, a questioning look on his face.

            “Should I leave you two…?” Sam tried to keep a straight face as he trailed off suggestively; he succumbed after a moment and struggled not to laugh out loud at his brother’s discomfort.

            “You should shut your face. That’s what you should do,” Dean grumbled as he sank onto the edge of the bed again. Layla bit down on a laugh. She retrieved her boots and her freshly laundered socks from the bathroom and returned to her chair by the bed. Luckily the low squared-off boots that Layla had with her, which she usually wore with her various “professional” outfits, had a zipper up the side so putting them on one-handed proved simple enough.         

            “What did Forbes say?” Dean asked, although he was looking at the television rather than his brother. Sam leaned back against the door, folding his arms across his chest.

            “Good news for a change. He got all the stuff from your room back,” he looked to Layla as he spoke, “and he says he can bring your car tomorrow after his shift.”

            Layla sighed heavily and brushed her hair back behind her ear, “I think that man is a miracle worker.” She was extremely relieved to know her gear would be returned but a small part of her regretted that it would be returned so soon. The thought caught her by surprise and she shoved it out of her mind in aggravation. It would be better back on the road; things were simpler there.

            “So what’s the plan for tonight? Because I’m not staying here,” she said restlessly as she hauled herself to her feet. Suddenly the urge to stretch her legs was even more over-whelming; the small room seemed too crowded and claustrophobic.

            “I think everything around here is closed except the bars,” Sam commented.

            “Perfect. So we agree then,” Layla said with a smirk.

            Sam chuckled and glanced towards Dean.

            “Actually…” he began hesitantly, running a hand through his shaggy hair, “…I think I’ll sit this one out.   I’m beat.”

            “Your loss,” Layla said with a slight frown. She turned her attention to Dean, “What about you, Winchester? Are you gonna make an injured woman scam drinks from strangers?”

            Dean blinked and looked up from the television. It was obvious from his expression that he hadn’t really been watching the movie at all but had been following some internal dialogue. There was a moment’s pause as he pieced together the question he hadn’t been listening to.

            “Yeah. I’ll go.”

            “Good. I’d rather scam drinks from you.”

            “Not possible. I’m unscammable,” Dean scoffed as he stood, briefly patting down his pockets, running the routine check for wallet, keys, flask and folding knife.

            “That sounds like a challenge,” Layla tried to keep her tone light as she edged towards the door; the stuffy, cloistered feeling was growing more intense as everyone stood and milled around, collecting their things. Dean still hadn’t looked towards his brother and Layla could feel the weight of an unspoken argument hanging between them.

            _Give me monsters over awkward social situations any day,_ Layla thought.

            Sam opened the door and it was as if the room inhaled; suddenly, Layla could breathe again.  The three exited into the balmy night air and Dean nudged her arm, pointing up the mostly vacant street.

            “There’s a dive bar a few blocks that way. We can walk if you want to stretch your legs.”

            “Dive bars are the best bars,” Layla replied and they started towards the sidewalk. Layla stopped, glancing back at Sam. “You sure you don’t want to come?”

            Sam nodded and pushed his hair back from his forehead, holding it there to reveal the small but jagged cut and surrounding dark bruise that ran along his hairline. Layla had forgotten about his face-first encounter with the motel room wall while they were exorcising Greer.

            “Yeah. I think I’m gonna turn in early. For some reason, I have a hell of a headache,” he grinned and let his hair fall back over the wound. Sam turned and headed for the brothers’ room, addressing Layla over his shoulder as he unlocked the door. “Keep him out of trouble, huh?”

            Dean had stopped a few feet farther on and if he heard the comment, he made no reaction to it.

            “What makes you assume I’m the responsible one?” Layla joked.

            “I’ve seen you work.”

            “But you haven’t seen me drink,” Layla replied with a mischievous grin. “Kidding, Sam. It’ll be fine. A few drinks, stretch the legs, and I promise to have him back before bedtime.” Layla began to walk away backwards as she finished speaking. Sam chuckled and shook his head as he disappeared into the motel room.

            Layla turned and caught up with Dean and the pair began walking up the street. Layla wasn’t short but she still had to step quickly to match Dean’s long strides. He noticed her brisk steps and slowed his pace, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans. The lull in conversation grew uncomfortably long; few cars passed them and the silence was broken only by the distant sounds of insects and birds.   At last, Dean cleared his throat and broke the stalemate.

            “So…Joan Jett, huh?” he asked, groping for some topic of conversation lighter than his thoughts.

            “Yep. Motorhead, huh?” Layla glanced over at Dean expectantly. She was not disappointed when she saw his look of surprise.

            He laughed and shrugged, “I’m surprised anyone got that.”

            “Using Lemmy’s pseudonym threw me off for a minute but I should have caught it earlier. I’m surprised I got away with the Agent Jett thing,” Layla’s grin slid into a thoughtful frown. “Guess I can’t anymore. Rest in peace, Agent Jett.”

            “Ha! I’ve buried James Hetfield twice.”

            Layla laughed. “Seriously? No one gets that?”

            Dean shrugged, “What about Michelle Ness? That’s like Mike Ness from Social Distortion, right?”

            Layla glanced at him in surprised approval, “Yeah. Good call. But a gender-bent Mike Ness is one thing. That’s a huge leap for most people to make; you’re talking James fucking Hetfield from Metallica. They’re like a religion with some people.”

            “Not the people I talk to,” he regarded her surreptitiously. “Apparently, I’m not talking to the right people.”

            Dean turned the corner and Layla followed. The bar was at the end of the block, past a row of red brick buildings whose glass storefronts huddled dark and quiet at this time of evening. The sprawling pool of fluorescent and neon lights that surrounded the business at the end of the street was almost blinding in contrast. As usual, there was a small crowd of smokers clustered outside but they paid little attention to the two hunters as they passed. A few curious glances lingered on Layla, presumably due to the injuries which were obviously recent.

            A wall of sound washed over them as they entered the bar; it was Friday night and the place was nearly full. A number of flatscreen TVs were mounted on the walls, all tuned to a local baseball game. The nasal whine of pop country-rock crooned sadly to itself somewhere beneath the murmur and occasional roar of the crowd. This place was a larger than the last bar and aimed to provide a more upscale, sports bar-like atmosphere; only the fact that this veneer failed miserably to hide its dirty country charm kept Layla from instantly despising it.

            Dean craned his neck to peer over the swarming patrons and spotted a couple empty stools near the end of the bar. He nudged Layla with his elbow and started to edge through the bustling crowd, politely but firmly clearing a path. There was a sudden surge of activity in one of the groups they were passing and a rambunctious, drunken man stumbled back against Layla.

            “Mother fucker!” Layla cursed at the explosion of fire in her broken arm as his back collided with it. She had said it only as a reaction, an exclamation of pain, but the man’s expression as he began to turn made it apparent that he had taken it personally nonetheless. Layla hardly noticed, however, as she gripped her arm to her chest and waited for the throbbing to subside.

            The man opened his mouth to speak and began to step forward when he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Dean didn’t shove the man or grip his shirt or present any macho posturing; with a firm, straight arm, he simply refused to let him move any further. Dean’s lips peeled back from his teeth and a casual observer could have taken it for a smile but the set of his jaw and the grim, unwavering stare he leveled at the man would have told an **astute** observer that it was a challenge. This was no smile; this was a baring of teeth.   Apparently, somewhere beneath the alcohol, this man was an astute observer. He mumbled an apology and backed off, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture.

            Dean looked away only after the man had been absorbed back into his pod of sympathetic sycophants. This time, Dean was a bit more forceful about clearing the path to the bar. The empty seats had apparently been forsaken by the rest of the patrons due to the presence of a nearby pillar that blocked the view of the televisions. As Dean and Layla settled on the vacant stools, Layla gingerly flexed the fingers of her arm, trying to get the spidery, prickling spasms of pain to subside.   She swiveled towards Dean and leaned forward, half shouting to be heard over the pervasive racket, “You didn’t have to do that, you know. It’s not like he was gonna beat up an injured woman in this crowd. He would have cussed me out and there would have been a battle of wits. He would have lost.”

            Dean snorted, “Of course he would lose; he’s basically unarmed but then he might reconsider beating up an injured woman.”

            “Have a little faith in me, Winchester. I broke my arm, not my head.”

            “Anyone ever tell you that you suck at thank-yous?”

            “It’s been mentioned,” Layla grinned, “but thank you.”

            Dean nodded then scanned down the bar, holding up a hand to attract the attention of a bartender. A young brunette woman wearing a t-shirt a size too small bounced towards them. She took in Layla’s injuries and a sympathetic frown wrinkled her cherubic features.

            “Aww, honey. What happened to you?”

            “Got mugged,” Layla put on a brave, tremulous smile.

            “Oh, my God! When?” The bartender propped herself on the bar, elbows folded and features a mask of rapt fascination.

            “Couple nights ago,” Layla reached over and seized Dean’s hand where it rested on the bar. “That’s how I met Dean here. He saved me.” Dean’s expression went carefully blank then shifted into a humble smile as he caught up with Layla’s story. He rubbed the back of his neck as if uncomfortable with the attention and Layla wasn’t sure he was acting.

            The bartender’s eyes tracked Layla’s hand to where it gripped Dean’s tightly then looked up at his black eye. She seemed to wilt like a flower as she hung on one long syllable, “Awww. That is so romantic! Tell you what: first round is on the house. What’ll you have?”

            “Hero’s choice,” Layla grinned slyly at Dean.

            “Bourbon…straight.” Dean fixed his eyes on the dark wood of the bar.

            The young woman glanced at Layla to confirm the order then deftly set out and filled a couple shot glasses. Without being asked, she retrieved a couple bottles of PBR, popped the lids and set them out beside the shot glasses with a wink.

            “You’re an angel. What’s your name?” Layla asked.

            “Sally,” the girl giggled.

            “Thanks, Sally. I’m Michelle.”

            Sally paused a moment then set out and filled another shot glass. “No problem. Looks like you guys had a rough couple days. Glad it’s got a happy ending.” The young bartender raised her glass and looked expectantly at the pair of hunters. When they had both lifted their glasses uncertainly, Sally looked towards Dean and offered a toast: “To white knights.”

            Sally clinked her glass against theirs and quickly threw back her shot. Dean’s face slid from barely contained shock to poorly concealed embarrassment. He glanced at Layla uneasily and she held his eye as she touched her glass to his and repeated Sally’s words: “To white knights.”

            Layla was surprised to see him blush darker from that salute than he had during any of their previous uncomfortable encounters. There was a call from the other end of the bar and Sally bounced away again to serve another customer. Dean quickly recovered his puckish grin and inclined his head towards Layla as he replied smugly: “…and damsels in distress.”

            Layla narrowed her eyes briefly then snorted a laugh. They took their shots together.  

* * * * *


	11. - All Anyone Can Ask For - One Good Moment - Farewells -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Layla's night out is wrapping up and their time together, for the moment, is running out.

* * * * *

            The bar had steadily drained of its patrons as the night wore on; those that remained were mostly clustered in quiet groups, talking in the subdued tones of experienced, determined drinkers. The televisions had been turned down and were now lost under the rounds of country and classic rock songs that emanated forlornly from the bar’s sound system. Once the bar had quieted and the crowd thinned, Dean and Layla moved to a secluded table.

            Their conversation meandered across a variety of safe topics for a long interval. They discussed, then argued about, music; they agreed, then argued some more, about movies. They had brought a bottle of whiskey with them to the booth and the alcohol flowed steadily but not quickly, a pattern typical among hunters drinking for the long haul, aiming for numb forgetfulness, not for fun.

            Layla was mildly surprised by how much fun she was having, nevertheless. It had been a long time since she’d been herself around anyone other than Kinsey and Kinsey wasn’t the type to go out drinking…not very often, anyway (Crown-and-Cokes on the back porch of her house were a completely different story). Similarly, Dean had forgotten the sense of impending doom that seemed to constantly haunt him these days, lost for this moment in pointless happy conversation and in Layla’s mischievous laugh.

            Eventually, the conversation was drawn inexorably to the job, to the work that was their lives. They traded a few funny stories of mishaps and near misses but eventually, as these conversations always tended, the tone became somber as memories of near misses brought to mind friends and acquaintances whose misses had not been near, or misses at all. There was a moment of strained silence then Dean cleared his throat and broke through the lull in a casual tone, trying to resuscitate the earlier light-hearted banter.

            “You said you’ve been doing this…what, five years now?”

            Layla nodded and took a sip of her beer. The cheap vinyl of the seat cushion creaked stiffly as she leaned back in the booth.

            “Something like that, maybe six. I don’t exactly celebrate an anniversary or anything.”

            “So how’d you get started?” Dean, likewise, took a sip of his own beer but shifted forward, folding his forearms on the table.

            Layla laughed sharply and took another drink to delay answering. She avoided the question with a typically sarcastic rejoinder: “You should know better than that, Winchester. Asking a hunter how they got started is a lot like asking a woman her age: even if you don’t get hit, you’re probably not getting the truth either.”

            Dean tilted his head in grudging but amused acceptance of her statement, “Fair enough. So how old are you?”

            Layla laughed again and set her beer down long enough to throw a crumpled cocktail napkin at him. “You really like to live dangerously, don’t you?”

            “Living dangerously **is** living,” he replied with a roguish smirk, “everything else is just existing. I plan on getting in as much living as I can.” Somewhere under the fog of alcohol that was distorting Layla’s perceptions, a part of her remained observant enough to note the desolate look that crossed briefly behind his eyes.

            “Fair enough. Can’t argue with that,” Layla responded. “I’m 25, if you must know.”

            “Same age as Sam,” Dean commented. “So you’ll tell me that but not how you got started?”

            “Which tells you that I’m only sensitive about one of those things; besides how do you know I’m not lying?” she arched an eyebrow at him in a look of overstated mystery.

            They both chuckled but Layla shook it off first, growing more serious as she continued: “How do you even define getting started? When I had my first encounter? When I first went tracking something? When I got my first kill? They’re all different answers and I’m not in the mood for a monologue.”

            Dean held up his free hand in a pacifying gesture. “I’m not pushing. I get it. I was just surprised you admitted your age. You’re usually more….private.”

            “Oh, please. In this line of work, every birthday is a victory. I’m gonna be proud of every damn one I have,” she paused thoughtfully after taking another sip of beer. “Correction: every damn one I earn because we do; we earn every single year.”

            Layla set her bottle on the table slowly as she noticed Dean’s crestfallen look. Something she had said had struck the wrong chord and she wished she’d been paying closer attention instead of running off at the mouth. Maybe she would have seen what had upset him; maybe she could have even avoided putting her foot in her mouth. Dean shook off his thoughts with trademark stoicism and Layla thought his features seemed tinged with determination. He tipped his bottle towards her in acknowledgement.

            “You’re right. We do earn every damn one.”

            Layla picked up her bottle again and tapped it against his before they both drank together.

            “So what about family?” Dean asked; then offered a preemptive defense against the umbrage he anticipated, “I’m not expecting details or anything. Just wondering…if you had anyone…”

            “Relax, Winchester. It’s fine. So do you mean blood or family?” Layla asked.

            Dean smirked, “Let’s start with family.”

            “Just one, an older sister, partner-in-crime type, but not blood. You?” Layla hadn’t forgotten to mention Kinsey’s son, Gavin, whom she viewed somewhere between nephew and younger brother. Layla was fiercely protective of the 14-year old boy, which is exactly **why** she never mentioned his existence outside his hometown.

            “There’s a few people: Sam, of course…”

            “…of course.”

            “…and Bobby Singer,” he looked to her expectantly and when she nodded to indicate she knew the name, he continued, “he’s family. Couple others, a little sister type and a…kinda scary aunt, I guess.” Dean struggled for a way to categorize Ellen, who was maternal but also vaguely terrifying to him in a way few women were. “So what about blood?”

            Layla frowned slightly and shrugged. “My parents?” she said, taking a distracted sip before replying nonchalantly: “Are dead, I guess.”

            Dean looked mildly surprised, both at her dismissive tone and the fact that she didn’t sound sure about her answer.

            “You guess?”

            Layla shrugged again.

            “Dad died when I was 15. Cancer. Mom cracked and disappeared a little while later. Everyone knew she killed herself. Just because they wouldn’t say it in front me, they thought I didn’t know.” She frowned slightly and collected their empty shot glasses, filling them once more and sliding one across the table to Dean. “Your turn.”

            “My parents?” he repeated, his features mirroring her expression of displeasure at reliving the memories, “Dead.”

            Layla raised her brow questioningly when he failed to elaborate and Dean sighed heavily, “That’s not fair. If I tell you that, then you get to hear how I got started.”

            “I thought you were raised in it.”

            “Yeah but it’s not like my parents were planning on it. They expected us to have normal lives…” he began to trail off and Layla cut him off, regretting having pushed the subject.

            “You don’t have…”

            “No,” Dean stopped her then sighed and threw back the shot of whiskey before continuing, “I brought it up. So the very short version is that a… a demon killed my mother when I was four; Sammy was just a baby. And Dad…he started hunting the thing and anything else he found along the way. He was a Marine so he learned what he needed and did what he had to…”

            Layla nodded slightly as she set her now empty shot glass back on the table, “I can imagine. Mine was a Marine too. Probably a rough life for a little kid.”

            “He did what he had to,” Dean repeated, though the response sounded mechanical this time. “We got the yellow-eyed bastard in the end, though. Saved a lot of people on the way, too. That’s what matters, right?” A hint of uncertainty escaped in his voice.

            “Those are the only things that matter,” Layla agreed. After a moment’s hesitation, when Dean still hadn’t responded, she reached across the table and laid her hand over his. “You stand by your family and help whoever you can however you can. No one can do more and no one can ask for more.”

            Layla struggled to conceal the jolt of electricity that shot through her as Dean met her eyes uncertainly. She slid her features into a playful smile, trying to lighten the solemn mood. She leaned back again, her beer taking the place of his hand in hers, as she continued wryly:

            “Now if you’re like us and your skill set tends towards elaborate cons and organized violence, then hunting is probably the best thing you can do with your time.”

            Dean chuckled. “It is a rare skill set. I know it comes with the gig as a hunter but it sounds like you had that down before you started hunting.”

            Layla smirked around the mouth of her bottle as she drank again, raising her eyebrows in a “wouldn’t you like to know” expression.

            “Long stories for another time, Winchester,” she said as she lowered the beer to the table again.

            “Another time, huh? I thought you were leaving tomorrow.”

            “I’m not going to fucking Nepal or anything. I’m sure we’ll work together again.”

            “Yeah,” Dean agreed, although he sounded far from hopeful about the prospect. He, after all, knew how little time remained in which that could happen; probably better that it didn’t happen, when he thought about it that way.

 _Better yet,_ he decided, _don’t think about it at all_.

            Layla drained the last of her beer and set it on the table.

            “Come on. I think we used up all the fun here. Let’s get a new perspective before this gets any darker.”

            Dean chuckled and finished off his beer then rose with her. He dug out his wallet and laid some money on the table, then glanced around and caught Sally’s eye. He gestured to the cash and she nodded and waved with a wide smile. Dean gave a small wave in return then turned back to Layla.

            Layla wobbled just a bit as she stood, hand briefly touching the table as she found her equilibrium. Dean turned to the door so she wouldn’t see him laughing, only to find that walking a straight line was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated. They both managed to navigate the obstacle course of tables and chairs and exited the bar without incident.

            When the door closed behind them, they were utterly alone. No cars moved on the streets and there weren’t any pedestrians other than themselves. They turned towards their motel and Layla nudged him with her good elbow, grinning slyly.

            “I win, by the way.”

            “Win what?”

            “You said I couldn’t scam you. You said you were unscammable.”

            “You didn’t scam me. I just bought some drinks.”

            Layla laughed and bumped her shoulder against his amiably as they walked. “Don’t you get it, Winchester? You’d been scammed before you even protested….the whole ‘I’m an injured women scamming drinks, poor me’ thing.”

            Dean shrugged and laughed. “At least you were honest enough to tell me it was happening.”

            “That’s because no one believes you when you tell them you’re conning them. I think pride won’t let them.”

            “You really like this whole undercover, secret identity, manipulation stuff, don’t you?”

            Layla shrugged one shoulder. “It’s necessary for the job so I may as well practice….but yeah,” she grinned, “I really, really like it.”

            “That probably says something about you,” Dean teased.

            “Yeah. It says I’m good at covering my ass.  I’m a student of human nature and rule one of human nature is that people see what they expect to see, which is rarely what’s actually in front of them.”

            “But staying completely off the radar almost had us hunting you; so how’s that working out?”

            “That probably says something about you,” Layla countered mischievously. “Do you always expect to see monsters?”

            “Can’t seem to avoid it,” Dean mumbled, a frown creasing the corners of his mouth.

            They were coming up on the motel and they angled across the parking lot towards their rooms. The pair walked in silence, stopping outside Layla’s door. As they came to a halt, Dean paused for a long moment, glancing down the empty walkway uneasily. At last he sighed and ran a hand across his jaw, stepping closer and lowering his voice.

            “You should tell us, before you go. We could help,” he offered cryptically.

            The hairs on the back of Layla’s neck prickled and she struggled to keep her voice even and guileless as she responded “What are you talking about?”

            “If you tell me what you’re running from,” he elaborated, voice hushed.

            “I’m not running from anything, Winchester. Nothing specific, anyway. We’re hunters. We’ve all got demons, no pun intended.”

            Dean shook his head obstinately.

            “It’s more than that.… I would know, trust me,” he said quietly. Although he still stared absently down the silent row of doors, Layla knew he was gauging her responses carefully.

            “You would know, huh?” she endeavored to sound completely unconcerned but the alcohol was making it impossible to tell if she was succeeding. “So tell me what you know.”

            “Other than the nightmares?” Dean asked. When Layla only responded with an annoyed, dismissive look, he proceeded in a stubbornly calm voice:

            “How about all the identities and the mind games? Even when you’re not working a job, you’re…dissecting people and figuring out how to work them.”

            “Maybe I’m just a sociopath,” Layla joked, trying to change the subject.

            “No,” Dean turned to regard her and tilted his head slightly to the side, corners of his mouth tugged down contemplatively. “You just try to distract them mostly. You don’t want them to see what’s actually in front of them. You’re running from something,” he repeated.

            Suddenly, Layla was regretting the last couple drinks…or five. She shouldn’t have let the conversation veer in this direction. She’d probably said a lot over the last few hours that she shouldn’t have, come to think about it. Layla shook off the thought and tried to impose a cocky, dismissive mask on her features as she turned to face Dean.

            “That’s pretty weak evidence, Winchester.   What makes you so sure?”

            He didn’t respond immediately, his green eyes searching hers.   Although Layla felt the urge to look away strike her like a physical blow, a bolt of fear through the chest, his gaze pinned her in place. At last he broke the silence, “Because I do see what’s actually in front of me.”

            “So why assume I’m running?” she said in flustered frustration. “Maybe I’m hunting.”

            “Maybe they’re the same thing,” Dean said and a knot of fear, momentarily unchecked by bravado, escaped its bonds and twisted in his gut. Those words had hit too close to home and it struck him that he and Layla might have more in common than he had thought, which was probably not a good thing for Layla.  

            “Maybe they are,” Layla conceded. Dean obviously wasn’t going to let this go but now was not the time for details and sharing. There was too much alcohol and there were too many unknowns; so Layla responded generically, trying to sidestep the lingering question: “So what do you do when you have the tiger by the tail? You hang on for the ride or he turns around and eats you.”

            She forced a grin and tried to sound confident and unshaken by the conversation or the fact that Dean now knew a good deal more about her than she had intended. Dean couldn’t help but laugh at Layla’s cocky response and rather terrible and belated attempt to appear unperturbed.

  _So we both have our secrets,_ he thought. He was in no position to push the subject… or to be much help to anyone in a few months. If they didn’t find Bela, he’d just make sure Sam helped her out after.

            In the meantime, Dean was suddenly and intensely aware of the seconds ticking by and the endless darkness that engulfed his future but here, now… this was a good moment. Just because he couldn’t get involved, didn’t mean he couldn’t take a good memory with him.

            “And you’re just getting in as much living as you can?” he asked with a crooked, teasing smile.

            As Layla nodded in agreement, Dean stepped close and caught her chin gently in both hands, pressing his lips firmly to hers. He would have preferred to wrap his arms around her but her injuries made him err on the side of caution as he cradled her face delicately.

            For a moment, Layla stood frozen in shock, the soft touch of his lips sending a surge of fire through her veins. When her brain finally realized what was happening, it was too late to assert control. Her lips parted of their own accord and she leaned hungrily into his kiss, her right hand sliding behind his neck, savoring the prickle of the short, soft hairs as she pulled him towards her. She felt him smile in surprise at the ferocity with which she responded.

            After a long moment, the sober, cruelly logical part of Layla’s mind asserted dominance and she pulled away breathlessly. Dean didn’t resist but he ran his thumb along the curve of her lower lip longingly before lowering his hands.

            “Sorry,” he grinned. “Had to live dangerously.”

            Layla laughed and lowered her hand hesitantly from his neck. Her hand, however, seemed unwilling to leave his body and it tracked the collar of his flannel shirt down to his chest.

            “Nothing personal, Winchester, but I don’t get involved with hunters. It…makes things too complicated.” She didn’t mention that she didn’t get involved with anyone who could be tracked back to her or who she might risk encountering again. “So this never happened, right?”

            One side of Dean’s mouth curled in a small, sad smile and he nodded. “Never happened.”

            Layla mirrored the wistful smile and curled her fingers around the soft, flannel fabric of his shirt. “As long as we agree it never happened…I guess it wouldn’t hurt if we never did it again…or something like that,” she said slyly, pulling him forward by his shirt.

            Dean grinned and let himself be pulled down into another long kiss. He braced an outstretched arm against the wall and buried his other hand in her hair.

            This time, it was Dean who pulled away with one last soft caress of his lips against hers, knowing that he was approaching the point of no return. He hated to admit it, any other time he probably would have refused to admit it, but he couldn’t afford to complicate things now and going farther would definitely complicate things. Whatever feelings he might be trying to ignore, they didn’t matter and they didn’t need reinforcement. They were just more reason to keep his distance, to keep her from getting hurt in more ways than one.

            Dean straightened slowly and Layla released her grip on his shirt. He blushed slightly as he backed away, shoving his hands into his pockets for fear they might try something when he wasn’t paying attention. He might have been experienced with women in a lot of ways but it suddenly struck him how very different this situation was, how very different this woman was. He realized that he was staring mutely and he cleared his throat, lowering his head uneasily.

            Layla grinned at him and remained leaning back against the wall for a moment; she tried to hide the fact that it was because her knees were trembling slightly.

            “Thank God for living dangerously,” she replied after a long pause. She hauled herself away from the wall and began to dig the key to her motel room from her pocket.

            Dean nodded and gave a small laugh.

            “It’s better than just existing,” he said as he turned and took a few steps towards his and Sam’s room. Layla’s voice stopped him as he stood at the door, digging for his key.

            “Hey, Winchester,” Layla called quietly after him, standing in the open door of her own room. Dean glanced back over his shoulder but didn’t turn completely as Layla continued: “Thank you…for everything.”

            He nodded slightly and flourished a smile that was a pale shadow of his usual grin. “Good night, Layla.” His tone was neutral but Layla thought she detected a hint of defeat in his posture.

            “Good night,” she answered as she closed the door, “…Dean,” she whispered to the cold, uncaring wood of the door as she rested her head against its surface.

            She inhaled and turned towards the bed, taking a seat and peeling off her boots. She glanced in the direction of the bathroom where the clothes Dean had provided for her to sleep in were hanging. She grimaced at the flutter that went through her stomach at the thought of putting them on, of sleeping surrounded by his scent again. Crushing the sentimental uprising with an iron fist, she slid out of the jeans and crawled under the covers as she was.

            She really needed to get her car back.

   * * * * *

            Once everyone was awake, which was well past noon, the three hunters had gone out and shared a quiet lunch. The group hadn’t been silent or awkward and the conversation hadn’t been sad but the air around them felt heavy, as if laden with unspoken thoughts.  

            Dean had dropped Sam and Layla back at the motel and then excused himself to the laundromat; the other two separated to their rooms to organize their belongings in the short amount of time until Forbes was expected to arrive. Layla didn’t have much in the way of possessions to arrange so she ended up killing the rest of the afternoon watching TV yet again. She debated about calling Kinsey but decided that that was a call best saved for the road, once she was well away from the allure of a certain Winchester brother.

            It was late afternoon when Forbes arrived, driving Layla’s black sedan. Layla and the brothers were waiting outside their rooms when Forbes pulled the vehicle in beside the Impala. Dean had the hood of the black Chevy open and he was checking her fluids in preparation of a long night of driving. Sam and Layla straightened from where they had been leaning against the front fender as Forbes swung open the door and climbed out. Layla stepped forward and extended a hand, her features beaming a smile of gratitude.

            “Forbes, they should make you a saint,” she said as she shook his hand firmly. The deputy wasn’t wearing his uniform, dressed casually instead in blue jeans and a grey t-shirt with a local business’ slogan emblazoned on the chest. His left arm was in a sling to relieve strain on the bullet wound in his shoulder, although his was a high-tech affair compared to Layla’s hospital-provided, sack-with-a-strap. She eyed the sleek, well-padded sling admiringly, “Fancy. Wanna trade?”

            Forbes laughed as he reached over and shook hands with Sam. Layla was pleased to notice that the man seemed taller somehow, that he stood straighter and with more confidence. Dean lowered the hood of the Impala and began wiping his hands off on a red shop rag then tucked that in his back pocket and came around to greet the man as well.

            “So how’s it feel to be a hero?” he asked as he finished up the round of congratulatory handshakes.

            Forbes laughed again and shook his head humbly. He swapped the car keys to his good hand and extended them to Layla.

            “It don’t feel right, to be honest. I shouldn’t be getting all the credit. Y’all are the real heroes.”

            “With all due respect, you’re wrong,” Layla responded bluntly as she accepted her keys. “None of this would have worked out if it weren’t for you. I’d be dead, maybe we all would. It definitely wouldn’t be this neat. And now you’re doing the hardest part: sticking around and cleaning up.”

            Layla grinned to see him blush and was surprised to realize it was actually the first time he had. It was amazing what people could turn into… or prove they were all along, she mused. She never would have recognized the shy, submissive officer she’d first mistaken for a rookie.

            “So how did you do it, Forbes? What’s really going on back there?” Sam asked after glancing around briefly to confirm that they were alone in the parking lot.

            “State boys came in. Feds came in right behind ‘em but when I flashed that file you gave me,” Forbes’ eyes flicked to Layla, “they fell in line just like you said. They didn’t want to admit that they’d missed the pattern so they’ve just been playing along like they were gonna swoop in any minute. No one really questions much of what I do…that’s how I got your stuff. Everyone was distracted with the bodies at the warehouse and the fire out at Korski’s so I just …commandeered it. No one even seems to have noticed.” He scratched the back of his head thoughtfully then continued, “Meyers and Doyle have been screaming themselves hoarse about the truth …but since the truth is about vampires and demons, no one’s really listening but the psychiatrists.”

            “Hopefully that doesn’t work in their favor,” Layla muttered. “Those guys are as guilty as anyone and they don’t have the excuse of being monsters…not literal ones anyway.”

            Forbes nodded sternly. “It won’t, not if I have anything to say about it, and the one person who has no friends is a dirty cop in prison.”

            “You’re a good man, Forbes. Tell me they have bigger plans for you,” Layla said as she opened her driver’s door and popped the trunk. She walked to the back of the vehicle and began rummaging through the contents, searching determinedly until she found, under her jacket, laptop and duffel, the backpack she kept as an emergency bugout bag. It didn’t look disturbed and there was no reason to think it had been but she checked the contents nonetheless, ignoring everything else until her eye caught a glint of light off the Marine-issued Ka-bar knife. She felt a knot of tension, which she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying, uncoil itself in her chest and she shifted her attention back to what Forbes was saying.

            “It’s funny you should mention that. There’ve been a lot people pushing me to replace the sheriff.”

            “You should,” Sam replied.

            Layla voiced her agreement from the trunk as she ran an inventory of her gear. When everything seemed to be in order she gathered a clean set of clothes from her duffel and closed the lid. She was momentarily confused when she saw the hood of the vehicle open.  As she came around the side of the vehicle, she saw Dean running a similar inspection on her car. She shot him an amused, questioning look but he didn’t meet her gaze, busying himself with the air filter instead.

            “I think I might. I’ve basically been running things the last couple days and I figure if I can handle that…” Forbes was responding to their comments.

            “…and exorcising demons…” Layla chimed in and Forbes chuckled.

            “…and that, then I can probably handle being Sheriff. I got a cousin who’s a sheriff, couple states over. Maybe it’s in the blood.”

            “Blood or no, you’ve got it in your head, you pay attention and you care. That’s the important part. So you want me to drive you back after I change?” Layla offered.

            Forbes shook his head. “Thanks but it’s probably best if y’all head a different direction for a while, no offense.”

            Sam and Layla laughed and nodded their understanding.

            “Anyways, I got a friend who works at a bar up the road. She offered me dinner when she’s done and a ride home after.”

            Layla nodded and dug in the pocket of her jeans, retrieving a scrap of paper.

            “I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes,” she said playfully as she extended it to the deputy, “but the top one’s my number; the second one will get you to someone who can get me a message if I’m off the grid. She’s good people and a lot like you. She can probably give you some advice on sheriffing, if you have any questions. Either way, call if you need help with anything and let me know how all this plays out, okay?”

            Forbes smiled and pocketed the paper with a grateful nod. “Will do but I hope I won’t need your particular brand of help for a long time.”

            Layla chuckled and shared a knowing glance with Sam before looking back to Forbes; both hunters were keenly aware of how these things tended to go: once you knew what was out there, the patterns were almost impossible to ignore. Forbes, however, had proved himself exceptional and maybe he would continue to be.

            "I hope you never need it again,” Layla said sincerely then continued in a light tone, “I only want phone-calls for cookouts and holidays. Free food is always appreciated….you know, once everyone’s forgotten I’m dead.”

            Forbes grinned and extended a hand to her once more, “Sounds like a deal. Can’t say it’s been a pleasure but it’s definitely been educational.”

            “Well you definitely passed with flying colors.” Layla stepped past his hand and kissed him lightly on the cheek. She gave him a wink as she stepped back, cocking her head in the direction of the bar. “Now go get ‘em, tiger.”

            Forbes’ cheeks only flushed slightly red but he managed not to stutter once as he said his farewells to the Winchesters. Layla excused herself inside to put on some clean clothes before spending the next 14 or so hours on the road.

            When she emerged, Forbes was gone and the hood of her car was closed. Dean was wiping his hands idly on the shop rag as he stared into the distance. Sam was nowhere to be seen but judging from the open door to their motel room, he was gathering up the last of their possessions as well. Layla tossed the one of the two bags she was carrying in the back seat of her car and extended the other to Dean.

            “Thanks for the loaners, by the way.”

            Dean nodded mutely and accepted the bag, walking around to the trunk and tossing it on top of their duffels before closing the lid. He walked back around to Layla and gestured to her car.

            “She’ll probably need some tires before winter if you’re gonna be driving up north,” he commented idly.

            “Then I guess it’s about time to trade her in,” Layla said in an impish tone and Dean glanced at her curiously, reading more than idle mischief in the tone.

            “Seriously? You’d steal a man’s car?”

            “There’s a lot of advantages to driving a generic car, including that, but no, I try not to steal people’s cars unless it’s an emergency.”

            Dean nodded and tucked the rag back into his pocket as he turned to face her. He dropped his head and lowered his voice, “Anything you want to tell us before we go?”

            “Winchester, I hardly know you. It’s a little early for declarations of love,” Layla teased, feigning shock; but she reached into her pocket and retrieved another scrap of paper. Dean smirked slightly but she could see the disappointment that she was avoiding the question again. She extended the scrap of paper with her numbers on it. “But I do have this. I made it myself.”

            He laughed quietly and reached out to accept the paper; Layla curled her fingers around his briefly as their hands met. She stepped forward and rose onto her tiptoes to press her lips gently to his cheek. She examined his features as she pulled away, trying to memorize each freckle and every tiny laugh line that appeared as he smiled; then she mentally stowed that image away where it could do no harm to anyone. Layla stepped back and released his hand and the moment was over.

            Dean cleared his throat and tucked the paper away in his pocket. The thud of the motel room door closing a moment later disrupted the silent tension that began to stretch out between the pair.

            Sam patted down his pockets as he walked towards them.

            “Looks like that’s everything. You all set?” he asked Dean.

            “Yeah…all set,” Dean responded and started for the driver’s side of the Impala. He tried to resist the urge to cast one last look at Layla. His resolve melted as he sank behind the steering wheel but luckily she had turned to Sam and didn’t see the wistful expression that crossed his features.

            Layla smiled up at Sam’s towering figure and gestured back towards the Impala, “Your brother has the rest of my contact info. You’ll call if you need help with anything, right?”

            “Only if you’ll promise to do the same. You don’t have to work alone anymore,” Sam replied. He didn’t know what had transpired the night before between his brother and Layla, only that Dean had been subdued and withdrawn ever since whenever the brothers had been alone. Layla’s grin wavered slightly in response to Sam’s statement but she managed to resist the urge to glance towards Dean. Of course, he would have told his brother what he suspected.

            “I guess. If that’s what it takes to keep you two out of trouble,” Layla said grudgingly, “but only when and if I need help.”

            Sam laughed softly but it sounded hollow and his smile seemed forced and plastic when compared to its usual vibrancy. Layla sighed to herself and caught the younger Winchester’s eye.

            “Sam, I really appreciate everything you guys have done but sometimes…” Layla paused and searched carefully for the words she wanted to use. If Sam could at least understand why she was so evasive, maybe he could explain it to Dean. She was surprised by how badly she wanted Dean to understand, to not hold her secrets and sarcasm against her.

            “Sometimes,” she continued, “the best way to help someone is to keep your distance, despite what you might want.”

            Sam sighed, his large shoulders heaving with the weight of it, but he nodded reluctantly. He wished he could change her mind but he knew already how stubborn she could be and now wasn’t the time for a debate. He already had his brother to argue about that with. He knew they would be in touch so he would handle one thing at a time. No matter what Dean said, Sam was certain they could use Layla’s help finding the Colt. If they didn’t make progress soon, Sam knew he would ask her himself but he hoped he could convince his brother to do it first.

            “I get it. Just remember we’re here if you need us,” Sam said as he leaned down and wrapped her in an extremely gentle hug. Layla kissed him on the cheek and wrapped her good arm around his neck, squeezing him tightly.

            “You’re a good man, Sam Winchester. Take care of yourself…and your brother.”

            Sam’s smile held a tinge of melancholy as he straightened although he did his best to disguise it. He tried to keep his tone light as he responded, “I’ll do my best.”

            “I know you will.” Layla patted him on the shoulder as she stepped past and opened her car door. Sam closed it behind her once she was inside; then he climbed into the Impala, which backed out first and headed for the exit.

            Layla started her car and followed the Winchesters out of the lot then turned her vehicle in the opposite direction, aiming southwest. Her eyes tracked the progress of the Impala until the taillights disappeared in the distance. As Layla drove out of town and headed back into the vast expanses of cornfields and cattle, she couldn’t help noticing how quiet and empty her car felt after riding shotgun in the Impala.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

            Here ends the story of the Devil in the Details.   [I had to use the 'shotgun in the Impala' line. Haha.  Sorry! It was how I came up with the pseud.]

Be sure to subscribe and keep an eye out for Layla's next story, [Six Months to Midnight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5927107). The first chapter is up and will continue with weekly updates.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt it was necessary to acknowledge that during this story, I may seem to convey a cavalier attitude towards addiction and/or those who struggle with substance abuse. I want to make it very clear that this is not the case and sincerely hope that anyone who is struggling with addiction will seek help. We can't fight your demons for you but this family will fight beside you.  
> I lost three friends to overdoses in the last year, three otherwise vibrant, strong, intelligent women. So I’d like to dedicate this story, in memoriam, to Jackie, Monica and Lindsey. 
> 
> Remember you're not alone and Always Keep Fighting.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I really didn’t know exactly how this story was going to unfold. I had a situation, a backstory and some characters I wanted to drop into the Supernatural universe. Between the boys’ personalities and Layla’s, I was just kind of along for the ride; things definitely took some turns that I did not expect.
> 
> This is only the beginning. Layla's next encounters are already being recorded.


End file.
